


Mistaken for strangers

by darkersky



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkersky/pseuds/darkersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing they teach you in any self-defense class is that it's always safer to run than face the threat.</p>
<p>(AU. There's no magic in this version of Storybrooke. Except maybe the kind that sometimes, however rarely, occurs when two strangers meet in the dead of night.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Epigraph**

 

_I don't get it, I'm not drunk_

_A million people in the place and there you are_

_And I was like_

 

_Hi my name is_

_Whatever you call me_

_So let's get undressed_

_'Cause you look a little lonely_

 

(Kim Cesarion – _Undressed_ )

 

  

**Prologue**

  

Hell. No.

That's someone Emma recognizes. And not just because the woman has been here a few times before, but because of the very reason Emma didn't approach her any of those times – she's someone from there.

She's not someone Emma is very familiar with, but Emma has definitely seen her before. She remembers her in the way she remembers people she has repeatedly yet casually passed at school or on the street, someone a few years older so they haven't really moved in the same circles, someone she hasn't paid much attention to, but someone she has definitely noticed, however idly.

Beautiful. Dark hair. Full, red lips. Stylishly dressed. Now in her mid-thirties. Laughing at a cute guy with a beard. He's also someone Emma has seen before – not there, but here, with the woman. Boyfriend? Something about their body language doesn't add up with that conclusion, though.

Emma doesn't even remember her name, maybe she hasn't ever even learned it, but she knows for a fact that she has seen that face before. Years ago. Back there.

The hotel bar is Emma's favorite for so many reasons. There are always people who are between destinations there. They live transient lives, much like she does, even though _circumstances_ have kept her in Boston for the past two years. This particular hotel attracts the kind of people who want to stay someplace decent but aren't willing to pay for penthouse suites with swimming pools. Business travelers. People looking for a bit of reasonably affordable luxury on special occasions.

People who are lonely and looking for temporary comfort where both parties recognize it for what it is. Temporary. Anonymous.

It's not exactly the kind of place where she expects to see someone from there, but then again, it does make sense. It's not that big of a coincidence even. It's only four hours away. And she doesn't even know if the woman lives there anymore. Why would anyone stay there? Or go back there? Maybe she lives in Boston. Maybe she just visits Boston often from the other side of the... world, and likes to stay in this particular hotel.

And yes, Emma does realize that she is using an awful lot of energy on making up excuses for why the woman might actually be fair game.

Of course there's the minor issue of the guy, but right now he seems to be having some kind of a minor meltdown. There are tears in his eyes, and the woman is smiling at him in a way that's compassionate, but also strangely impassioned. She puts a hand on his knee, but he stands up and speaks in a heated, hushed tone. She looks at him, shrugging, and says something in response. He closes his eyes for a second, looking pained, and then he just walks away, not looking back.

She is left staring after him. Something vulnerable flashes in her eyes, but then she turns her attention back to her glass of wine, apparently not interested in following the guy and causing any kind of a scene from a romantic dramedy.

The worst thing is, Emma recognizes the look. It's that of carefully masked loneliness.

She wishes she didn't recognize it, but she does.

Emma has found herself thinking about her hometown lately. It's probably no wonder considering... everything. Hell, she did, after all, even consider calling her mother just a few hours earlier. Emma has to close her eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. When she opens her eyes again, she feels calmer.

She keeps twirling her almost untouched drink around in the glass. She can't afford getting drunk because there's always the chance that, instead of dulling the pain, the alcohol will magnify it.

It's all so messed up. She has no idea how she has even ended up here. Was any of it ever worth it? Yes. One good, one _perfect_ thing came out of everything.

But that's _really_ not something she wants to think of now.

She just doesn't want to think.

And yes, Emma knows what she is about to do is quite possibly the worst idea in the history of the world, but when has that ever stopped her before? As soon as the idea forms itself in her head, she knows she has to act on it. There's no other choice. And the worst part is, she is fully conscious of the fact that it's partly because she has been thinking about her hometown lately, and she knows that the woman is from there.

"Rough night?" Emma asks the woman as she leans on the bar next to her.

"Not particularly," the woman says. She quirks an eyebrow and looks at Emma, her eyes sweeping over her body. It's a calculating look, but also mildly amused, and not altogether hostile. Her voice is quietly powerful, low.

"He a boyfriend of yours? The one who left you sitting here all alone?"

"Graham? No." 

"Let me guess. He wanted more, but you didn't?"

"Where would you get such an idea?"

"I read people. It's my job."

"Who are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not."

"I've seen you here before. With him."

"Oh? You don't look familiar."

_Thank god._

  

***

 

There is something about trust between strangers that Emma has never understood.

She has gazed at many a naked form sprawled on various beds, and she has always been struck by how ridiculous it is that those people allow themselves to fall asleep just like that even though there's a stranger in the room. 

There are few things that are as pitiful as the sight of a sleeping, naked human being. So vulnerable. So unsafe.

But this woman isn't sleeping. She's staring at Emma from under the covers.

"You are leaving?" she asks, but not in an accusatory tone. It's more of an observation than anything.

"Yeah," Emma says, pulling on her jeans. She's in a rush to leave, because it's too risky to stay in one place for too long at four a.m. when there's a deluge of thoughts and emotions threatening to overcome her.

She can already feel a sting in her eyes, and she definitely doesn't want the woman to notice it.

"You are crying," the woman says, and, _shit_ , too late.

Shit shit shit.

"No, I'm not," Emma says.

She pulls on her last item of clothing, a leather jacket, and then she's gone.

 

***

 

Emma stares at her phone, wanting to press 'End call' so fucking much, but some outside force seems to be stopping her.

"Hello?" a voice says suddenly.

Emma can't form words. It's too much. Her mother's voice is too much. It's the same and it's different. And it's her mother.

"Hello?" her mother asks again.

"Mom?" Emma says, quietly.

Her hands are shaking almost as much as her voice.

 

 

**I**

 

  

"What's this?"

"It's a chicken salad."

"I think I told you to get me a cheeseburger."

"Come on, Emma. That salad's not gonna kill you."

"Neither would the burger."

"It might. Eventually. Eat your salad."

"How did you get so annoyingly health conscious, kid?"

"Dunno. Maybe I just don't want you to die of heart disease at forty."

"I think I'm gonna order a maternity test online."

"Haha. Very funny."

They eat in silence. Gas stations are clearly not equipped with the freshest of ingredients but whatever, the salad's actually not that bad. Though she's not about to tell Henry that.

It almost feels like one of their regular road trips (and there have been many of those – so many that knowing what _"Stay in the car!"_ or _"Don't open the door for anyone but me!"_ mean has become second nature to Henry), but then Emma hears a small sniffling sound. When she glances at Henry, she sees that the kid's clearly holding back tears. She sighs because this is the part of motherhood she's not very good at. "What is it?" she asks.

"I... I just don't want to lose you, too," he says quietly, and Emma feels a sharp pain in her chest.

"Oh, kid. You are not going to lose me." She has to blink a few times as she pulls Henry into a one-armed hug. It's extremely awkward in the cramped space in the yellow Bug. Besides, they aren't really huggers.

"So what are your parents like?" Henry asks eventually when Emma lets go of him. Right. Emotional mother-son moment over.

"Well..." It's a good question. And pretty damn hard to explain to an eleven-year-old, however smart he is. "They are... okay. I mean, they are pretty nice people."

"How come I have never met them then?" Henry looks suspicious. He really is way too smart for his own good.

"Err. My relationship with them is... complicated."

"What did they do?"

"They didn't do anything, I guess. I kinda ran away..."

"Why?"

Emma sighs. "I will explain later. We really have to get going if we want to be in Storybrooke before it gets dark."

  

***

  

"This place is pretty... quiet," Henry says, peering out of the car window.

"Tell me about it."

They are driving along Main Street towards the address Emma's mother had given her on the phone during their incredibly awkward conversation a week earlier.

How on earth she had let her mother talk her into visiting them is still a mystery to Emma, but whatever, any place is better than Boston right now. Maybe even Storybrooke.

The town hasn't changed much at all in the almost twelve years she's been gone. The streets are slightly less bumpy and the signs above store windows look like they have a fresh coat of paint, but that's pretty much it. The clock above the library is still stuck at 8:15.

Her palms are sweaty on the steering wheel when they finally turn into the driveway that leads to an innocent-looking yellow house. That's one thing that's changed. They used to live in a pretty crummy loft, the three of them. But now her parents have a yellow house with flowerbeds and birdhouses and all. How perfectly lower middle class.

"Okay, kid. This is it. Unless my mother gave me a fake address."

"Why would she do that?"

"I don't know..." _Maybe because she doesn't really want to see me?_ But now is not the time to get paranoid. She takes a deep breath. "Let's go meet your grandparents."

  

***

  

The door flies open almost immediately after the first knock.

Her mother is standing there, looking very much like herself, though older. There's some more gray in her dark hair. Her father is close behind, still tall and in shape though there are wrinkles around his eyes.

For a moment they all just stare at each other. Then her mother pulls her into a bone-crushing hug. "Emma," she whispers in her ear, "I can't believe you are really here."

And Emma can't believe it either. The plan was, after all, pretty simple – to never come back. She pats her mother on the back, more than a little tensely.

When her mother finally frees her from the embrace, Emma looks at her father and says, "Dad."

Her father just smiles at her in that dopey way of his, and he looks like he is actually happy to see her. He doesn't hug her, which doesn't surprise her one bit, but at least he doesn't seem to be harboring any plans of punching her (not that he ever would, really) either so things are pretty good on that front.

Emma hears a small cough from behind her and it brings her back to reality. She puts a hand on Henry's shoulder and says, "Henry, these are Mary Margaret and David, your grandparents. Mom, dad, this is Henry."

"Hi," Henry says, looking uncharacteristically shy. His hands are in the pockets of his green hoodie.

"Hi, Henry. It's nice to finally meet you," Mary Margaret says, tears in her eyes, and cups Henry's cheek affectionately.

"How do you do," David says, mockingly formal, and offers his hand for a handshake. When Henry tries to shake it, though, David pulls him into a bear hug, a huge grin on his face.

Henry looks at Emma in alarm. Poor kid. He's so not used to hugs. Emma feels pretty lousy about that, but yeah, at least it seems her parents are willing to accept Henry regardless of where the other half of his genes come from.

And that's a relief and pretty much all that matters right now.

 

***

 

Dinner is... almost pleasant.

It's easier with Henry around, because, after the initial shyness, the kid is a surprisingly good conversationalist and there seems to be an instant connection between him and his grandparents. They chatter about random stuff, like Henry's school, and the kids Mary Margaret works with, and when Henry finds out that David is the Sheriff, he can't stop asking questions about the details of the job. 

"I think I will take you on a ride-along one of these days," David says and Henry's eyes shine with glee. Emma thinks about how totally unexciting it's going to be because nothing exciting ever happens in Storybrooke, but it's been a long time since Henry last smiled like that so she doesn't say anything.

At some point Henry sneaks an extra spoonful of green beans to Emma's plate, and Mary Margaret winks at him and gives him a fond smile. So, great, they have known each other for a whopping two hours and already they are unified in the quest to change Emma's eating habits.

There's one thing they are not talking about and Emma is grateful for that. Because she's sure the questions about Henry's father will come sooner or later and she'd prefer later. Or never.

  

***

 

Never is too much to hope for.

Henry is sound asleep in the guestroom when David approaches Emma, holding two beers.

"Thanks," Emma says and takes the offered bottle. She sits down on the floral couch and David flops down on the armchair opposite her.

"So. Gold told us what happened to... his son."

"Yeah, I figured that's how you knew." Emma stares at the paintings of baby deer and birds on the walls. Her mother's artwork, most likely. She remembers her mother's alarmed tone on the phone ( _"Emma, how are you dealing with what happened?_ _Please, tell me you are okay._ _"_ ).

She expects a barrage of questions and accusations, but definitely not the question David asks, "Were you happy with him?"

"I..." But Emma doesn't know what to say. "Ask me something easier," she finally says, feeling awfully tired.

David looks sympathetic. "Henry is a great kid."

"Yeah. I guess I haven't managed to mess him up too much. It's a fucking miracle, really."

"You could have told us right away, you know. We would've been there for you."

_No, you definitely wouldn't have been there for me._ That's her first thought. And it's... it's not something that she wants to think about right now anyway. It's no use speculating how different things could have been if she hadn't been so messed up and so in love with someone both so wrong and so right. "Right," is all she says.

"Did he treat you two... okay?"

For some reason the question makes Emma a little angry. "You know what, dad? If there's one thing that was good about Neal it was that he was a good father. He loved Henry more than anything and always took care of him. And yes, sometimes his ways of taking care of him weren't... exactly legal, but yeah, he did treat us _okay._ " The words come out in a pretty heated tone but Emma doesn't care. She definitely doesn't want David to think that she would have actually stayed with someone who _didn't_ treat Henry okay.

"Good. That's... That's good to hear." David looks a little taken aback.

"I... I think I need some fresh air. It's been a long day."

"Okay. Just..."

"Just what? Just don't run away and leave the kid here with you?"

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Then, just what, _David_?"

"Just be careful."

And Emma actually laughs a little. "Yeah, because you never know what dangers lurk in the dark back alleys of Storybrooke." 

"Yeah, you never know," David says, and he smiles, too.

 

***

  

It's fucking weird being back in Storybrooke. It's a clear night, the fall air crisp with the feeling of impending doom. The streets are wet from the rain that fell earlier in the evening.

Nobody's out and about this late except for a lone figure less than a block away, walking a dog. And, _shit_ , Emma is pretty sure she can identify the figure as Archie Hopper. She definitely doesn't want to run into her former shrink so she takes a left turn.

She walks past her old high school and remembers all the times she used to sneak out of school grounds to smoke a stolen cigarette right there, behind that old oak. She also remembers the way her mother looked at her the second time she had been caught doing just that – so sad and powerless before the monster her daughter had somehow turned into.

For a minute she considers paying The Rabbit Hole a visit for old times' sake, because yeah, it would actually be legal this time around (the place always was pretty lenient about fake IDs, though...) but then she remembers how she is supposed to be a rational adult.

She has to be a rational adult, because she is the only adult her son has these days.

It's a terrifying thought.

She's walking on the empty streets of her hometown, and she is the only adult her son has these days, and her parents have a house with flowerbeds, and she has no idea how any of this has happened.

She feels horribly, terribly alone.

  

***

  

"Did you have a good walk?" Mary Margaret asks when Emma gets back. She's sitting in the kitchen, holding a steaming mug of something that smells a little disgusting.

"Yeah, I guess," Emma says.

"Do you want some chamomile tea?"

"No, thanks, mom. I think I'm just... gonna get some sleep."

"Okay. Good night, Emma," Mary Margaret says.

"Night."

"I'm happy you're here," Mary Margaret says, sounding a little hesitant.

Emma manages a tiny smile. A " _Me, too_ _,_ " would be an exaggeration, though, so she doesn't say anything.

 

***

  

It's Monday morning and both her parents have already left for work. (And Henry really should be at school in Boston but luckily his teachers are pretty understanding with kids who have just lost a parent. Besides, Henry is smarter than most pupils in his class anyway.) The past two days have been kind of a blur, but it has been surprisingly nice, exploring Storybrooke with Henry. Emma's parents haven't asked her any uncomfortable questions or _any_ questions at all, actually, and Henry has been so excited about the most random things like the docks or Granny's diner.

For... various reasons Emma had been a bit nervous about seeing Granny, but, strangely enough, she looked a little misty-eyed when she said, _"Well, you have grown a lot, girl. I still won't leave the cash register unattended when you're around, though."_ Other than that, Emma hasn't really run into too many people she knows, and for that, she is eternally thankful. Sometimes it pays to be kind of a loner.

Henry is happily munching on the pancakes either one of Emma's parents has apparently left in the oven to keep warm. And how is it fair that Emma is supposed to eat vegetables these days and Henry is still allowed to pour that much syrup over his pancakes? Between bites he says, "Your parents seem pretty cool."

"Yeah. They seem to think you are pretty cool, too."

"I'm glad we came here," Henry says and he smiles at her with such genuine joy that the ever-present pain in her chest lessens a little.

"Yeah..." she says. "I'm sorry I didn't bring you here ever before."

"No, I get it. There are issues you need to discuss with your parents. You are pretty weird around them."

"I know."

"Is that... because you ran away?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"Why _did_ you run away?"

But there's no way Emma can explain that without saying something negative about Neal and she doesn't want to do that because Henry doesn't know even close to the whole truth about his dad. "I was pretty young. And stupid."

Henry looks skeptical, again, but he doesn't say anything.

"What do you say after breakfast we go say hi to David at the station?"

Henry's eyes light up. "Yeah. Sounds cool."

 

***

 

The sheriff's station is a place Emma is pretty familiar with. And not just because of the fact that her father happens to be the Sheriff.

"Hey," she says.

"Hi!" David says, smiling happily at Henry. "Have you ever been at a sheriff's station before?" 

"No..." Henry says, looking at the holding cells in wonder.

"That's good. I see Emma has managed to keep you from trouble." David actually winks at Emma.

"Does that surprise you?" Emma asks before she can stop herself.

"No, definitely not," David says, fixing his gaze on Henry. Emma doesn't totally buy it.

"Anyway, I think you promised him a ride-along," Emma says.

"Yes, I did, didn't I? Henry, do you want to see Storybrooke from a cruiser?"

"Can we have the siren on?"

"Okay. But maybe not the whole time. People might get alarmed."

"You're probably right. But let's go!" Henry looks positively ecstatic.

"Alright then," David says. "Are you gonna be okay here?" he asks Emma.

"Yeah. I will handle any crises that come this way." Emma knows that there are never any crises in Storybrooke. And David knows it, too, because there's no way he would leave Emma alone at the station otherwise.

So David and Henry leave, both waving at her in a way that says, _"Have fun with your boring desk job."_

Emma sits down at her father's desk. Huh. It's weird, because she has never been allowed to do that. Then she realizes she probably still isn't allowed to do that, and stands abruptly. 

There's a darts board on the wall so she picks up a dart from the floor, aims and throws it with no success. It just bounces off the wall. Damn. 

What else is there to do at a sheriff's station?

For a minute she considers going through her father's files just to see if there's anything on anyone she knows. But then she remembers that, yeah, she should be a responsible adult, so she proceeds to take a nap on the couch next to the desk.

She is awakened way too soon by a voice calling from the hallway. "Sheriff? Are you here?"

Emma sits upright. She hopes this doesn't mean there's an actual crisis about to unfold.

"Sheriff?"

And suddenly Emma realizes who it is that is staring at her.

The woman. The one from the hotel bar. The one she had recognized as someone from Storybrooke.

And this is precisely the reason why approaching her was a horrible idea. These are the situations Emma has always done her best to avoid.

However homesick and lost and alone she had felt, sleeping with someone from Storybrooke was extremely stupid. Fucking idiotic actually.

"What are _you_ doing here?" the woman asks, and all hope that she has somehow forgotten Emma's face is lost in the way her eyes narrow.

"I... nothing," is all Emma manages to say. Because, okay, _play_ _it_ _cool_ _, we are all adults here_.

"Does the Sheriff know you are here?"

"Yeah, of course."

"And would you happen to have any idea as to where he is?"

"Yeah."

"Do you realize you are not making any sense?"

"Yeah."

"And do you also realize I'm the Mayor of this town?"

"What?" Because... _what_?

"Yes, so, whatever your name is, please, do tell me where I can find the Sheriff."

"He went for a ride around town with... someone."

"Just like that? He decided to spend town resources on just driving around town?"

"Yeah. Besides, I'm pretty sure when the Sheriff does that, it's called patrolling."

"There's something you are not telling me." The brown eyes bore into Emma's with startling intensity. They are very pretty eyes.

"Yeah."

"Who are you?"

"Does it really matter?" And with that, Emma moves closer to... to the _Mayor_ , because she doesn't seem to be able to resist the electricity in the air that's pulling her towards the abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous woman dressed in an immaculate suit.

"I asked you a question," the Mayor says, but she's looking at Emma's mouth.

"I know," Emma says and she is pretty much about to push the woman against the wall by the time she suddenly hears the police siren coming closer. The sound makes her jump a little, because _oh shit_ , that's her father and Henry and she feels like she's doing something forbidden even though she isn't doing anything at all really.

"I... I think the Sheriff is on his way here," she says as she takes a few steps back.

The Mayor's expression doesn't really give away anything, but she does sound a little breathless when she says, "How perceptive of you."

"Yeah," Emma says, staring at the brown eyes.

Lust at first sight. Maybe it is a thing.

And suddenly David is there and so is Henry whose eyes shine with an awful lot of excitement.

"Emma! We rescued a bird!"

"We did, didn't we, buddy?" David says, looking proud in a way that looks pretty genuinely grandpaternal.

"Lucky bird," Emma says, grinning at Henry, forgetting for a moment that there's someone else other than Henry and David in the room.

"Hey, Regina, what are you doing here?" David asks when he finally notices the Mayor just standing there.

"You are late with you paperwork, Sheriff. Again," the Mayor, _Regina_ , says.

"I know. But like always, you will find all of it on your desk by Wednesday. You have my word."

"And why should I trust your word this time? Because usually Wednesday seems to mean Friday to you."

"Because I have my daughter and grandson here as witnesses," David says, awfully casually, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"Really," Regina the Mayor says, looking at Emma sharply. "Your daughter didn't bother with introductions."

Emma feels a little flustered. Okay, not just a little. If only her father knew...

"Don't mind Emma. She's a bit rough on the outside," David says, grinning, and Emma looks at him in a way that hopefully dares him to say, _"But soft_ _on the_ _inside."_ Because that would give her the perfect excuse to punch him.

"Really? I would have never guessed," Regina says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I hope you are enjoying Storybrooke, _Emma_."

And with that she turns on her heels and walks away.

Emma feels her spine tingle.


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

  

"So. The Mayor's kinda intense," Emma, perfectly casually, says to her father when they are setting up a barbecue later on Monday.

It's a warm evening, uncharacteristic of October in Maine. Emma feels slightly relaxed for the first time since arriving in Storybrooke. Maybe it's because they are outside in the sunlit yard, and not inside the house, surrounded by animal paintings and floral fabrics, or out in public where the threat of running into people from the past is always present.

Henry is sitting on a swing, reading a schoolbook, his brows furrowed in concentration. And really, the next day Emma is just going to send him to school with Mary Margaret, because the kid's maybe just messed up enough to enjoy that as much as rescuing birds with his grandfather.

David chuckles. "Regina? Yeah, I guess. I'm so used to her I don't even notice anymore."

"Seems hard not to notice..." Emma mutters.

"What did you say?" David asks.

"Nothing. So you haven't gotten any better at dealing with paperwork?"

"That's right. I could really use a deputy who would deal with that for me."

"Yeah, I don't think it works like that," Emma says. "What happened to that... pervy guy who used to work for you?"

David laughs. "Killian? Believe it or not, he went to sea. Took a job on a charity ship five years ago."

"Right, that was his name. Killian Jones. He tried to hit on me all the time when I was sixteen," Emma says. Not that she was particularly traumatized or anything. Killian Jones was a perfectly nice dude who was just basically incapable of not flirting with everyone. Besides, he had a band, a weird name, and he wore a lot of eyeliner. That was the sort of thing that a sixteen-year-old Emma thought was sort of hot. Emma finds the thought of him on a ship, much less a charity ship, pretty ridiculous.

But maybe people change. She knows she has. The very fact that she's here is probably evidence of that.

"I know. I punched him once for that," David says.

"Really?" Emma asks. "Well, thanks." She doesn't know why she's thanking her father for resorting to physical violence against someone, but for some reason the thought of her father, or anyone really, defending her, however questionably, makes her feel a little warmer. She has to add, though, "I could've done that myself, you know."

"I know," David says.

"What are you two talking about?" Mary Margaret asks suddenly. She has appeared on the porch.

"Oh, just work stuff. Regina was pestering me about paperwork and scared Emma in the process," David says.

"That's... really not what happened," Emma says. And damn it if she isn't blushing. "I mean, the part about paperwork is true, but I'm not easily scared."

" _David_ ," Mary Margaret says in a tone Emma recognizes as one that used to start most fights in their household. The fights were always of the passive-aggressively silent variety. There was never any shouting, because that would have been too normal. That would have been a family where a loud, angry teenager wouldn't have been an anomaly. "I've told you you shouldn't make her job harder than it already is. She's a good mayor, you know?" Mary Margaret says.

"Yeah, I know, I know," David says, throwing up his hands. It's an apologetic gesture.

"Is the barbecue ready?" Mary Margaret asks.

"Almost," David says.

"Maybe you should concentrate more on getting it totally ready and less on badmouthing people," Mary Margaret says before going back inside the house. She moves a bit jerkily.

"What was that about?" Emma asks, feeling a little bewildered.

"Well..." David sighs. "Mary Margaret has a very complicated relationship with Regina."

Emma can't help the way her heart starts beating a little faster, and she knows she shouldn't ask, because she shouldn't be interested, but, "What do you mean? She seemed to insist on defending her." 

"Yeah. Too bad Regina doesn't exactly feel the same way. To put it bluntly, because there is really no other way of putting it, she hates your mother."

Emma knows how it feels to hate her mother, but she has also never met anyone in Storybrooke who does. It's a strange thought. "Why?"

"Hell if I know," David says. He falls momentarily silent and seems to be thinking about something. "Hey, Emma, I... It was never a good time to ask so I never did... What have you been doing all these years? I mean, work-wise?" 

Emma can't help smirking a little. This is going to be a real kicker. "Well, other than a few crappy waiter jobs and the like I used to have, most recently I've been doing a little bounty hunting. I'm thinking of becoming a licensed bail bondsperson."

David almost chokes on his beer. "Really?" he manages to ask in between coughs.

"Yeah. Believe me, the irony of me catching criminals is not lost on me," Emma says.

"Well, good for you," David says, still wide-eyed.

"Yeah..." Emma says.

"Maybe you could be my new deputy then," David says, smiling.

It's such a ridiculous thought that it actually makes Emma laugh out loud for the first time in god knows how long. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure the sheriff's station is not meant to be a family business."

She wonders how it's even possible that she's suddenly getting along so well with her father. Maybe they have always been very similar, and she just didn't see it amidst all the teenage angstiness.

Her mother, though, is a whole another thing. And who's to say, really, that this tentative peace with her father will last either.

 

***

 

On Tuesday Emma is on her own.

Henry had indeed been excited about spending the day with Mary Margaret's class. That's the side of the kid's personality Emma thinks she will probably never quite understand. Neal wasn't much better, but together they somehow managed to make do. And Henry liked it when his dad read to him, and then, when... Neal was lying in the hospital, Henry read to him, desperately trying to evoke some kind of a response.

Reading was their thing.

The thought that it, all of it, should be Emma's thing now is... Oh god, how is she ever going to be able to support the kid through whatever advanced high school program he's going to end up in, and then there are going to be college applications, and who knows what else there is waiting for them in the future... If there even is a future.

Fuck.

This whole being on her own thing is clearly not a good idea right now. Just a couple of hours and her thoughts have already taken a dark path.

She needs something to do. But what?

It's the first time Emma is alone in her parents' house, and she feels like an intruder. It's a strange house because it's not her childhood home, but there are still reminders of her youth scattered around the house. Photos, diplomas, and oh yeah, much to Henry's amusement, the couple of trophies Emma managed to score during her short stint on the track team before being kicked out due to almost failing English. She was a decent middle-distance runner by Storybrooke's standards, which, as she explained to Henry, is not really all that impressive by any other standards.

Emma wonders if she had grown up differently had she been more ambitious about excelling at something. Probably. Too bad there was never anything she was particularly good at. Other than running, that is, and yeah, even that was questionable. She hasn't done much sports since then, other than a few self-defense and martial arts classes, going to the gym, and punching the crap out of a punching bag whenever she has felt like it.

Ironically enough, the first thing they teach you in any self-defense class is that it's always safer to run than face a threat. The thought has always resonated with Emma and she has taken it to heart on such a profound level that it's not even funny.

Having nothing better to do, she picks up a photo album from the coffee table, and isn't really even shocked to find it full of photos of her younger self. She always thought that her parents probably built a bonfire of all her things and everything that reminded them of her after she ran away, but, despite how little sense it makes, she has come to realize that that's not at all the case. They have held on to pretty much everything.

Her juvenile self stares at her from the photos, sometimes smiling, sometimes scowling. Blonde hair, pink princess dress, Halloween costumes, blue hair, black hair with red highlights, messy mascara, blonde hair again, a pair of glasses.

And that's where the photos of her end.

On the last used page of the album there's a photo that actually makes Emma's heart do a little backwards flip.

It's a photo of Henry. He's two years old, and he's grinning, and there's ice cream on his chin. Palm trees and California sun in the background.

She doesn't need to take it out of the photo album to know what's written on the back. She remembers it very well, because it took her two whole days to compose a message that was both to the point and sufficiently obnoxious.

_I thought you guys might want to know you have a grandson. His name is Henry. He's two. Merry Xmas. Btw, I changed my last name. -E_

Her vision is rapidly becoming blurry and she knows it's time to do what she and self-defense instructors know is the best course of action whenever the situation feels like too much to handle.

Run.

  

***

  

Emma's options are pretty limited because she can't very well just drive out of Storybrooke and never come back, this time for real. Henry is at school with Mary Margaret and Emma doesn't have the heart to steal him from his grandparents quite yet, because in many ways he seems to be having the time of his life here.

She will give Henry a few more days of small town bliss. Then they'll both get the hell out of here. It's not as though her parents are willing to host them forever either.

So, all options considered, it doesn't surprise her at all when she realizes she has parked her car right across the street from Town Hall.

It's almost like a curse, the way she needs to see the one person in Storybrooke who has managed to make her feel other things than regret, grief, acute horror, and loneliness. Or, in the very least, it's a different kind of loneliness. Something she is more used to than this black, futureless hole she feels looming over her head these days.

She has been leaning against her car for a while when she sees a now-familiar figure exit the white building. The Mayor walks towards a black Mercedes with an air of confidence.

Emma only has a few seconds to make a decision, and it's a very easy one. She jogs towards the black car, and just as the engine purrs to life, she knocks on the driver's side window.

The Mayor, Regina (what the hell is her last name even?) looks surprised, but the surprise is soon replaced by irritation. She does, however, roll the car window down.

"What the hell are you doing here, Miss Nolan?" she asks, voice not much more than a hiss.

And yeah, names don't usually matter, but for some reason they sometimes do. "Swan."

"What?"

"It's Swan. My last name. I changed it."

"Fine, please spare me the details of your sordid life. I'm really not interested. My original question still stands, however. What the hell are you doing here, Miss _Swan_?"

"I think you know what I'm doing here," Emma says.

"Are you stalking me?" Regina asks. Her voice is cold, much steelier than it was in Boston. Even steelier than it was in Storybrooke before she found out who Emma's parents are.

"Maybe I am," Emma says, shrugging.

"Well, I suggest you leave me alone unless you want me to call security."

"There's building security at Storybrooke Town Hall? I don't think so. And I don't think you want to call the Sheriff either."

"Oh, that's right. Because as the prodigal daughter of the town saints you wouldn't get arrested for harassing the Mayor."

"Exactly." Quite possibly not true, though.

"You know what's curious? How your parents never, ever talk about you."

"Well, I can tell you one thing," Emma lowers her voice and bows her head so that she is leaning further into Regina's personal space. "I'm not here to talk about my parents."

"Oh? And I can tell you that whatever it is you are here to talk about, it's not something I... talk about here." A flash of actual fear. 

Ah. Suddenly Emma gets it. The fear. "In front of your office or in Storybrooke in general?"

That earns Emma an exasperated eye roll. "Take a guess."

"So that's what Boston's for? Boston and... what was his name? Graham?"

"My life is none of your business, Miss Swan. Have a good day." Regina starts to roll the window back up.

"Wait!" Emma puts her hand on the sharp edge of the window and hopes that Regina is not some sadist who would risk breaking Emma's fingers. "Do you live alone?"

"What part of 'none of your business' did you not understand?" But the words are lacking in venom, and there's no mistaking the momentary flicker of desire in the dark eyes.

"That's a yes, then. I'll be at your house tonight at 9:30. Feel free to not open the door."

"You don't know where I live." By now Regina sounds resigned. She's staring straight ahead.

"Yeah, and finding out the Mayor's address in a town of this magnitude is going to be an impossible feat." Emma smirks.

"Goodbye, Miss Swan."

"See you later, _Madam Mayor_."

As she stares after the black car, Emma knows there's only one explanation for the way she's behaving.

She's operating under a curse. The curse might be called Loneliness or Weariness or Slowly Going Insane or whatever, but it's definitely a curse.

 

***

  

It figures that a town like Storybrooke still has a paper phone book.

It also figures that the Mayor is listed there.

_Regina Mills. 108 Mifflin Street, Storybrooke, ME._

Emma almost laughs at how easy it is to find people sometimes.

She remembers the residential area around Mifflin Street as something that she used to know was way beyond the pay rates of a schoolteacher and town sheriff. It's where the few wealthy people in Storybrooke live. And she's also pretty certain that not even small town mayors make so much money that it makes sense for them to live in that neighborhood.

But Emma is really not here to contemplate anyone's financial situation. Or any other situation for that matter.

This is not about getting to know someone. This is about forgetting who she is for a while.

  

***

  

"Hey, Emma!"

Emma is startled awake by Henry's voice.

It's funny how _making plans_ has relaxed her enough so that she has fallen asleep while reading Storybrooke Daily Mirror. And maybe the boring local news stories played a minor part in that, too.

"Hey," Emma says, yawning. "Did you have fun?"

"Yup! We made a volcano! Grandma is a pretty awesome teacher."

"Grandma?" Emma asks. She's not sure why the familial term unsettles her so much.

Henry looks uncertain, like he's been caught doing something embarrassing. "Yeah, she said it's okay if I call her that." He sounds defensive. 

"Yeah, it's cool, of course. She _is_ your grandmother." Emma smiles at Henry. "So tell me about the volcano."

Henry looks relieved and launches into a long-winded explanation of the inner workings of volcanoes and tectonic plates.

  

***

 

The reason why the term unsettles Emma actually becomes somewhat clearer when she's helping her mother load the dishwasher after dinner. Henry and David are in the back-yard doing something weird that looks an awful lot like sword fighting even though instead of actual swords they are holding broomsticks. Mary Margaret looks at them with tired fondness.

"So, grandma, huh?" Emma says, studying her mother's profile.

Mary Margaret glances at her. "Yes, he asked me if it's okay for him to call me that. And of course it is, isn't it?"

"Yeah, of course," Emma says.

"I mean... I've noticed... No, I'm sorry. Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything." Mary Margaret is looking hesitant in the way she's been looking hesitant around Emma for the whole duration of Emma and Henry's visit.

"Come on. What is it?" Emma asks.

"Henry calls you Emma."

"Yes."

"Is there a reason for that or...?"

"Not really."

"Oh. It's just... It's unusual."

"Maybe in Storybrooke but not out there in the real world."

"Okay. It's no big deal, really, just something I've noticed..."

"The fact that he calls me 'Emma' instead of 'mom' or whatever doesn't make me any less of his mother."

"Of course not. It's just... You call me 'mom'."

"Yes. And maybe that's why that word might hold negative connotations for me." Emma knows it's an extremely low blow, the kind that characterized their relationship all the time twelve years ago, but she's getting annoyed by her mother's intrusive hesitancy. And boy, does she know exactly where her mother's emotional landmines lie.

"Oh, I... I guess I understand..."

And suddenly Emma can't bear seeing her mother's hurt expression. No matter how frustrated she is, she regrets her harsh words. She's not that person anymore. "No, mom, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't really mean it."

"Right."

"Really. I... I'm so sorry." Emma knows she will have to force the words out. Her mother deserves a little something, a small tidbit of information about the twelve years that feel like an impervious wall between them. "I don't even remember how exactly it happened. Henry's first word was 'Ma' and first we thought it was a version of 'mom', but then it became clear that it was actually short for 'Emma'. And 'Emma' just kinda stuck. I didn't really care what he called me, because what he called me wasn't something that defined our relationship. Because what defines it is the fact that I love him more than anything."

"Yes, that's... That's what mothers do," Mary Margaret says. There's a horrible, ugly sadness in her eyes. 

_"I wish I would've known that twelve years ago,"_ Emma wants to say. But she doesn't. Instead she says, "I think I will go check on Henry. Make sure dad's not cheating in their broomstick fight." 

"How would anyone cheat in a broomstick fight?" Mary Margaret asks, obviously thankful for the lighter turn in the conversation.

"I don't know, but if there's a way, I'm sure dad will find it."

"I know. He always finds a way." Mary Margaret's wistful smile is a little teary.

 

***

 

"I'm going for a walk," Emma says to her mother at 9:15 after making sure Henry is really sleeping (the poor kid fell asleep right in the middle of Lion King 2, his head on his grandfather's shoulder – clearly small town life has a way of tiring him unlike any excitement that bigger cities ever had to offer).

"Okay. Don't stay out too late," Mary Margaret says absent-mindedly. She is doing a crossword puzzle.

"Because... it's a school night?" Emma asks.

"Oh. Right. Sometimes I forget you are no longer seventeen," Mary Margaret says.

And there it is. The counterattack. Which Emma kind of deserves. "Sometimes I forget it, too," Emma says, because she has no energy left to fight. Not tonight anyway.

  

***

  

The white house is huge. It's not really even a house, but more like a mansion. 

Her knuckles have barely made contact with the door before it opens.

"I hope you weren't foolish enough to park your car in my driveway," are Regina's first words. She's breathtakingly beautiful in her simple gray dress.

Emma, of course, knows the rules of the game. "Of course not. I'm not stupid. I walked."

"Good. Come in."

Curse or no curse, there's really no choice but to oblige. 

 

***

  

The thing about one-night stands becoming a two-time occurrence is that hiding things about yourself becomes harder.

This is something Emma realizes as soon as she feels teeth on the sensitive spot just below her collarbone, and she can't help the gasp that escapes her lips. She knows from the slight upward turn of the red lips that her reaction doesn't go unnoticed.

And that's when she knows that this can never happen again, even if she feels oddly free and safe from the outside world and its fucked-upness, because sooner or later the small revelations will grow into something that starts to form a coherent picture. A picture of her. A picture of the person who, as she can't help noticing, responds to feather-light kisses on her stomach.

And that, noticing these things, if something, is dangerous. More dangerous than trusting strangers.

It's a good thing she is not planning on staying in Storybrooke for much longer. Because leaving, like Emma thinks when a tongue circles her left nipple, might very well be the only way to break this particular curse. 

But yes, oh god yes, there's no reason why she shouldn't enjoy it while it lasts, she thinks, as she bites her lower lip.


	3. Chapter 3

**Interlude**

  

 

_No, no maybe I'll just get drunk,_

_And it will all make sense._

 

(Tom Odell – _Sense_ )

 

 

**III**

 

  

This time Emma is in even more hurry to get dressed than the first time. Not because she feels like crying, because, oddly, she doesn't, but because she's afraid of anything that might come out of her mouth if she stays for any longer. Things like, _"Well, that was fun_ _._ _Wanna do it again sometime?_ _"_

"I have to go," is what she says.

"I imagine you do." It's dark in the bedroom, but Emma can see that the expression on Regina's face is indecipherable. It's not exactly dismissive, but it's closed off. Neutral.

Emma wants to ask, _"So,_ _how come your house is so big?"_

"I'm leaving Storybrooke in a few days," is what she says instead.

"I would certainly hope so." There's a slightly harder edge to Regina's voice.

Emma wants to say things like, _"Hey,_ _by the way,_ _why do you hate my mother?"_

But these are questions that will have to remain unanswered. The fact that Emma finds herself coming up with these questions means that this thing has definitely run its course and become tainted.

It's time to break the curse.

Emma offers a small awkward wave as a way of saying goodbye. Normally she wouldn't even give anyone that, but, then again, normally she doesn't end up in this situation twice. A wave feels like a necessary courtesy.

Regina doesn't say anything. She just watches as Emma turns to walk away. If anything, the last emotion on her face that Emma catches is annoyance.

Emma tiptoes through the enormous house, and feels oddly like she's walking through a museum or a gallery. Everything in the house is white and earth tones. It looks like something from an interior design magazine, not like a place where someone actually lives.

Emma wants to go back and ask, _"Are you as_ _alone_ _as I am?"_

But she doesn't. She walks out the door, through the yard, into the night. She is, once again, the only person on the empty streets of Storybrooke.

 

***

 

For some reason, breakfast on Wednesday morning is a very tired affair. Emma has managed to catch only three hours of sleep, and her head feels heavy. David keeps nodding off, his coffee having seemingly no effect on him. Mary Margaret is reading the paper, yawning intermittently.

Henry is a notable exception. His hair sticks up in all directions, but he's very much awake.

"So are we working on volcano stuff today, too?" he asks his grandmother. 

"No, we'll continue that tomorrow. Today we are going to learn about migratory birds and start building a birdhouse."

Emma knows that she should remind Henry of the fact that this is not something that's going to last for much longer. They are leaving soon, and he won't be able to finish his birdhouse.

But she's tired, and Henry says, "Cool! We never did stuff like that in any of my other schools."

She'll talk to him later. After school.

But David asks, "Henry, how would you like to go for a little hike this evening?"

"I don't know. I've never gone hiking," Henry says.

"There's this trail near the old Toll Bridge where we used to go all the time when Emma was little. I thought maybe you'd like it," David says.

Mary Margaret smiles. It's a sad smile like most her smiles these days. "Emma used to believe there were trolls living under that bridge," she says.

"Did you really?" Henry asks Emma. He looks both amused and fascinated.

"I don't know. I don't remember," Emma says. It's not exactly true, but there's nothing more embarrassing than childhood anecdotes.

"She did. She used to carry a toy sword around so she could defend us against the trolls," David says. He's smiling widely.

"Okay, that's enough," Emma says. "I was what, four or five at the time? Henry refused to eat bananas at that age because he thought they could feel pain."

It's Henry's turn to look embarrassed, but he gets over it pretty quickly and grins. "Yeah, but then dad cut that one banana in half and it didn't scream so I started eating them again."

Emma has to blink a few times. The image of Henry screaming, _"No, no, no, don't do it, please!"_ and Neal laughing, wielding a huge chef's knife is suddenly very clear in her head. Her own voice sounds strange when she says, quietly, "And you never watched that Bananas in Pajamas DVD again."

Henry looks at her, and he looks sad and lost and hopeful and everything at the same time. They are the exact same things Emma is feeling, except for the hopefulness, and everything else fades into the background, and Emma hears herself saying, "I think you will like the hike."

She will talk to Henry about leaving later. After the hike. 

In the meantime, there's something important to ask her parents, "Hey, is there something I could do around the house when I'm alone? Like, mow the lawn or something?"

"Well, how are your painting skills these days?" David asks.

"Still not great," Emma says truthfully.

Mary Margaret snorts a little. She's probably remembering all the pathetic attempts at Mother's Day cards Emma used to bring her. David looks at Mary Margaret, questioningly, and she shrugs and then nods.

"We've been meaning to paint the fence for a while but never got around to doing it. We did buy the paint, though, so if you want to, you can do it. I promise it doesn't require superior abilities because even I could do it," David says.

"Oh, okay, I can try," Emma says.

  

***

 

Painting a fence, Emma thinks, is kind of meditative. The warmth of the sun on her bare shoulders, and trying to focus on making even strokes with the brush do a decent job of keeping her thoughts from going to a dark place.

She's been painting for over an hour when, suddenly, she can hear the roaring of a motorcycle approaching. Emma doesn't look up before the sound comes to a sudden halt mere feet from her.

When she does look up, she almost drops the can of paint she's holding.

_No way. It can't be._

"Emma Swan. In the flesh," the person sitting on the motorcycle says, taking off his helmet.

And yet it is. Ten years older, with more beard, a ridiculous neck scarf still in place.

"August?" she asks, still not quite believing. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I heard you were in town. As an old friend wanting to reminisce, I came to say hi."

"No, what are you doing in _Storybrooke_?"

"I'm writing. Working on a book, to be more precise." 

"And you had to come here to do that?"

"For various reasons, yes. I've been staying at Granny's for a while. She was actually the one who told me about your surprising reappearance. You can imagine my shock at the news as I remember you very specifically saying, repeatedly even, that you were never, ever setting foot in this town again." 

"And I remember you sending me a postcard from Phuket. You sounded perfectly content there."

"Yeah... It was fun while it lasted. But all fun comes with a price. And too much fun makes August a very dull boy."

"Right. Or maybe you have just always been dull and never realized it."

"Maybe that's my tragedy, yes. Speaking of tragedies..." Suddenly August's face is serious, concerned. "How are you holding up after yours?"

Emma feels a surge of old anger. "I don't think you get to ask me that question."

"You're still mad at me? Really?" August asks, looking incredulous.

"You almost got him thrown in jail."

"Yes, _almost_ being the operative word here. And all of us having been young and foolish being another significant factor in the matter."

"I thought we were friends."

"We were, Emma. Honestly, I always thought of you as a sort of a little sister. Annoying but lovable."

"Oh, really? Well, then your idea of how big brothers act might be a bit skewed."

"Do you still not see it? As I told you a million times, I was just trying to help you."

"How exactly were you trying to help me? I would've been alone. Henry and I would've been alone."

"At the time I honestly thought a little jail time would've helped him turn over a new leaf in his life."

"Well, luckily for all of us, community service did that, too." _Mostly._

"That wasn't the only reason, though. Because I was always more concerned about you than him."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I do admit I did also hope it might help you reconnect with your parents."

"Oh? That might be the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. Because how are those two things even remotely related?"

"No, seriously, Emma. You missed them, didn't you? But you were too damn stubborn to come back. I thought... With Neal out of the picture for a while, and deservedly so, you might come back home. Save yourself from a world of pain."

"You are so full of shit."

"Am I, now? Because isn't that exactly what's happened recently?"

"You have no right to say things like that. He's dead. He didn't deserve _that_."

"No, of course not. And I'm sorry for your loss. I am. What happened was... It was extremely unfortunate. For what it's worth, I did actually like him." 

"And arranging his arrest was your way of showing it?"

"Let's not fight, Emma. Neither of us have too many friends in this world, right? In fact, at least for me, the number is exactly nil at the moment."

Emma knows August has a point, and it would be so easy to tell him that, but... "I haven't seen you face-to-face in ten years. You can't expect things to go back to the way they were. Even if I forgave you for what you did to Neal."

"I know and I don't expect them to, because, in any event, we are new and hopefully improved versions of our past selves. But do you think these reincarnations of us could be friends again? Because I think the world is depressing enough without any unnecessary dramatics."

Emma sighs. Fighting with August never works out, because there _is_ something big brotherly about him. He's like the brother you want to strangle one minute and hug the next. And, to be honest, she is tired of any unnecessary dramatics, too. 

"Let's have a drink. You and me. We'll talk about stuff and judge people and their stupid life choices together. Like friends do," August says. His crooked smile tells Emma that August knows that he has won this battle.

Well, that can't make things any worse, right? And, at the very least, it will give Emma something to do. "I'll have to check with my parents... They need to watch Henry."

"Great. How's tomorrow at 6? The Rabbit Hole? Because, honestly, I don't want Granny hovering around us."

"That's okay, I guess."

"Good. I'll let you get back to painting. Which, by the way? Another thing I never thought I'd see."

"Yeah... That's me. Full of surprises," Emma says drily.

"That you are. See you tomorrow, Emma." 

Then he puts the helmet back on, waves, and leaves.

Huh. Who knew. Perhaps there's at least one relationship in Emma's past that's not either completely fucked up or past salvaging.

She keeps painting. So far today things have been going alright. Her thoughts have been nowhere near Town Hall or Mifflin Street. Which, of course, is the exact wrong thought because memories of last night are suddenly flooding her mind.

Fucking hell. She wonders if this is something she could talk to August about. Probably not.

The strokes of the brush get angrier and messier.

  

***

  

Things are always more impressive when you are a child. Emma can't help thinking that when she looks at the small river that runs under the Toll Bridge. It used to feel enormous. She was always scared of the water that never got any warmer, not even in the summer.

"Wow. This place _is_ cool," Henry says. "Though I don't get the bridge. It's just a bridge."

"I hope you weren't expecting actual trolls," Emma says, smiling.

"Duh. I'm eleven, not stupid," Henry says.

"I know, kid," Emma says.

"This bridge is actually where your grandfather and I first met," Mary Margaret says.

"Really?" Henry asks.

Emma has heard the story of how her parents found each other so many times that she rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, I was passing through town with my high school girlfriend. We blew a tire right here. Your grandmother helped us," David says.

"Wait. Are you originally not from here?" Henry asks.

"I'm not from Storybrooke. But I've been here pretty much ever since that first meeting," David says, smiling at Mary Margaret.

"What happened to your girlfriend?" Henry asks.

"She left. I stayed," David says.

Emma knows it's the simplified version of the story, but Henry might not be ready for the whole thing with all the cheating and stuff. She's pretty sure she's not even supposed to know all the details of the story, but luckily, or maybe not, the people of Storybrooke _talk_.

Mary Margaret looks at David and, yeah, Emma knows what's going to happen next. Mary Margaret places a hand on David's chest and they kiss.

Henry looks extremely alarmed. He looks at Emma and his expression says, _"Eww."_

He is not used to adults showing that much affection towards each other around him.

 

***

  

It's past midnight and Emma is lying awake when she realizes she forgot to bring up the whole leaving thing with Henry.

But she's already kinda agreed to meet August the following day so it's not like they are leaving in the next 24 hours or so.

There will be time for that talk.

 

***

  

On Thursday morning Mary Margaret has a meeting with a student's parents before classes start so David agrees to take Henry to school a bit later. He's going to be working the night shift so Emma agrees to go with them so she and David can swing by the hardware store afterwards and get some more paint for the fence. Because, apparently, painting angrily means using more paint than is absolutely necessary.

It's half past eight and they are on their way to Storybrooke Elementary School in David's truck. 

"Shit! I mean, _shoot!_ " David says suddenly, brakes, and punches the dashboard. _"Sorry,"_ he mouths to Emma, glancing at Henry.

Henry rolls his eyes and looks pointedly at Emma. "Don't worry. I've heard much worse."

"Shut up, kid," Emma says. "What is it, dad?"

"It's Thursday."

"Yes, it is. Will you be as shocked to realize that it's Friday tomorrow?"

"No. The paperwork."

"Oh, right. Let me guess. You didn't finish it by Wednesday?"

"I did. I did actually finish it." David sounds angry with himself.

"But?"

"It's not on Regina's desk. It's on my desk," David says, closing his eyes.

"Is it really that big of a deal? I mean, if that's something that always happens anyway?" Emma asks.

"I made a promise. And she _does_ have the power to fire me." 

"Well, there's nothing you can do about that now, right?" Emma says.

"There might be..." David says.

"What do you mean?" Emma asks even though she feels a strange sense of dread.

"She doesn't usually get in before nine so I might have just enough time to smuggle the paperwork into her office before she arrives."

_Oh great._ This is nothing new to Emma, but she had forgotten just how crazy life with her parents can be sometimes. But as long as she doesn't have to face Regina, there's no reason why she shouldn't play along with her father's stupid plan.

  

***

 

But the thing Emma had also forgotten about her parents' stupid plans is that usually, at some point, things escalate.

The plan is going perfectly smoothly and there might even be just about enough time to get Henry to school in time, too, when suddenly, everything goes to hell.

Emma and Henry are sitting in the truck, conveniently parked behind a bush so that it isn't directly visible from Town Hall, waiting for David.

Suddenly, however, Emma catches sight of a black Mercedes that's heading towards the parking lot.

"Oh great. That's the Mayor's car," she says to Henry. She's more annoyed at the fact that her heartbeat picks up than she is actually concerned about her father getting caught in Regina's office.

"How do you know?" Henry asks.

"I... I saw her driving it the other day. But that's not the point. The point is, dad is going to get caught."

"No, that can't happen," Henry says. His eyes light up. "We need to distract her so grandpa's cover isn't blown!"

_Oh, no_ _fucking_ _way._ "Oh no, we are not going to do anything, kid. We'll let dad learn from his mistakes."

"No, seriously, we have to distract her. I can do it!" Henry says.

"No, you can't," Emma says, more panicked than is probably reasonable. In her head there's a voice saying, _"No, no, no, no, hell no_ _!"_  

"Why not? It can be like a secret spy mission. Operation Python."

"Python?"

"What? I had like... one second to come up with a code name." Henry is speaking very fast.

"And now we have like one second to come up with a better plan. I suggest staying put." 

"There is no better plan," Henry whispers dramatically, eyes round and wild, excited.

Then, before Emma can do anything, he is out of the car and running towards Regina who is just getting out of her car. Emma blames Neal for having shown Henry way too many spy movies. She also blames herself for gifting Henry with a really particular brand of hereditary idiocy. The sort that has nothing to do with intellectual capabilities and everything to do with recklessness and utter disregard for any possible consequences of rash actions.

Emma slides as far down on the passenger seat as she can and prays to gods she doesn't even believe in that nothing horrible will happen. It's not as though Henry is in grave danger, though, because it's not like Regina is going to pull a gun on him or turn him into a toad. The worst thing that can probably happen is Henry being subjected to damaging levels of sarcasm. 

She doesn't dare look. _Stupid kid. Stupid dad. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Seconds pass.

Suddenly the car door is yanked open.

Regina is standing there with a very sheepish-looking Henry.

"Your son is a horrible liar," she says, but, weirdly enough, she looks more amused than angry when she glances at Henry.

"No, I'm not," Henry huffs, hands in his pockets.

"What's your name, boy?" Regina's eyes are narrowed.

"H- Harry. Harry Potter," Henry says. And yeah, maybe Emma has overestimated his intelligence.

"See, I don't think that's true, dear." Now there's an actual little smile playing on the red lips.

_Dear? Smile? What the fuck?_

"Am I right in guessing that your incompetent father is currently in my office?" The smile is gone as soon as Regina turns her attention to Emma. The hard edge is back in her voice. 

"... no?" Emma tries even though she knows it's in vain.

Brown eyes stare at hers.

What was this about again?

Right.

What's the word for that hue of brown? Russet?

No. Wait.

Kisses on stomach.

_No. Fucking hell no._

"Good morning, Regina," David says suddenly. His expression is that of feigned nonchalance. He might as well be whistling, too.

"Good morning, Sheriff. So now your whole family supports your corrupted work morals?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," David says.

"Of course not." The sarcasm is definitely back.

"Let's get you to school, Henry," David says. "Bye, Regina!"

Regina doesn't say anything. She just stands there, arms crossed, looking every bit the imposing mayor she is.

Emma wishes she could think of something else than the way the top buttons of Regina's blue dress shirt are unbuttoned, revealing smooth skin. Skin she has actually touched.

  

***

  

"I think she liked me," Henry says when they are back on the road. He looks happy with himself.

"Well, congratulations, Henry. That might be a first for our family," David says, chuckling.

"What did you say to her anyway?" Emma asks. For some reason, she is still feeling all kinds of perplexed. Because, honestly, what the hell just happened?

"I told her I lost my pet owl," Henry says, shrugging.

"Oh, kid," Emma says, sighing. Is it wrong to wish that your kid was a better liar?

Well, it can't be more wrong than wondering if the person you have slept with twice has an unlikely soft spot for kids who are bad liars.

  

***

  

"Mom?" Emma asks later that afternoon. David has left for his night shift.

"Hmm?" Mary Margaret says, looking up from the pile of stories written by her students.

"Could you watch Henry for a while tonight?"

"Do you have plans?"

"Yeah, I'm meeting a friend."

Mary Margaret's expression changes. "Which... Which friend are we talking about?"

"August," Emma says.

"Right. Your friend August," Mary Margaret says, looking at Emma weirdly.

"What? It's not like I have many friends in Storybrooke," Emma says.

"He was one of the... guys you used to hang out with, right? The one with the motorcycle?"

"Yeah."

"And this meeting... It's like a... date?"

Emma can't help laughing. "Oh no, mom. Not at all. Just two friends catching up."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, absolutely. Believe me, the last thing I'm looking for right now is someone to... _date_."

"Oh, of course. I understand. Yes, I can watch Henry, sure. Go meet your... friend."

Emma wishes her mother was a better liar, too.

 

***

 

Thursday nights at The Rabbit Hole are exactly like Emma remembers them – gatherings of people who are attracted by terrible music and cheap drinks. But it's not... horrible, being here and catching up with all the latest town gossip that August has heard from Granny. So far the only piece of gossip that has actually somewhat shocked her has been the fact that, apparently, Gold is dating someone who is not just half his age but also hot and Australian (Granny's words, not August's). It doesn't make any sense.

August is sipping on his third watery beer when he suddenly says, "We are getting older, you know."

"You might be. Thirty-five is basically middle-aged." Emma grins, because she has also had a couple of drinks. Not enough to get her properly drunk, but just enough to loosen her up a little.

"Oh, you think this is funny? Don't tell me you are not feeling it, too." August's blue eyes are extremely somber.

"Feeling what? Old age?" 

"No, Emma, age is but a number. I meant our souls. They are getting weary of the world. Things keep getting smudged around the edges, life goes by, our emptiness grows and there's nothing to fill it with."

"Really?" Emma asks. She's usually been immune to August's inane wordmongering, but this time something about his words hits a tender spot.

"Yes. Sometimes it almost hurts to breathe, you know?" August says.

Emma sighs, feeling her good mood fade. "Sounds like you are describing the curse."

"What did you say?" August asks.

It can't hurt to talk to him about some of this, right? "It's like a curse. The whole being tired of everything... thing. Not feeling anything but, you know, feelings that suck."

August nods slowly. "Yes, exactly, I guess calling it a curse would make sense."

"How do you break a curse like that?" Emma asks.

"I don't know. I mean, I guess that's what I was trying to do. I travelled the world and found myself no more enlightened about the human condition than I was when I left. If anything, I felt worse, because the world is so vast, but the distance between two human beings is always even vaster." Judging by the length of his sentences, August is clearly in his writerly mode.

"And now you are back here. How does that make sense?" Emma asks.

"I thought, if I wanted to write something of any significance, I would have to come back to the origin of everything."

"Has that helped you? At all?"

"I don't know yet. But it has made me a tentative believer."

"What does _that_ mean?" 

"It means I feel like things are on the verge of something beautiful perhaps occurring someday." August smiles.

"Because you came back to Storybrooke? Seriously?"

"Yes, rediscovering your roots is a powerful thing. It grounds you in the world."

"Really?"

"Our roots are the foundation upon which our pain grows."

"That sounds... awfully pretentious," Emma points out.

August looks hurt. "It's a direct quote from the book I'm writing." 

"Oh." _Oops._

"I guess I really am full of shit." His smile is self-deprecating.

"No, August, you're not. But maybe just... go light on the 'upons', okay?" Emma smiles at him, because making him feel worse is not going to help her feel any better.

"Like a little pretentiousness ever hurt anyone... But seriously. _Think_ , Emma. Save yourself before it's too late."

"How exactly am I supposed to save myself?" Emma asks because if August has any wisdom to offer on the subject, it's something she really needs to hear. She needs to know if he thinks being saved is even possible.

"I don't know. Do something of at least relative permanence. Don't just paint a fence, but build a house." August has a faraway look in his eyes. 

Okay, Emma supposes any actual advice was too much to hope for. "Yeah... You're officially drunk. Because I can't really see myself as the house-building type, if you know what I mean."

"Then, at the very least, fall in love again." August's eyes shine almost feverishly.

"Oh, right. Love. Because that's, like, the easiest thing in the world." Emma can't help the sarcastic tone.

"No, it isn't. It's the hardest thing in the world for people like us." August is completely serious.

"Are you saying you've tried? Because I don't recall you as the romantic type."

"Oh, I tried. In Thailand. I fell madly for a lovely girl named Isra. I even learned a little Thai in order to be able to communicate to her heart in its native language."

"How did that whole thing go?" Emma asks.

"Horribly, of course. You know I'm not the romantic type." The self-deprecating smile is back.

Emma laughs. It's not exactly an amused laugh, but more like a laugh that says that, yes, she's kind of thankful to have one friend who is exactly as horrible a person as she is.

  

***

 

It's not even awfully late when they decide to call it a night. Who knows, perhaps they really are getting old.

Emma's legs feel a little wobbly on the pavement. So, maybe she's a little more drunk than she's admitted to herself.

Right. She's supposed to head back to her parents' place where her son is probably fast asleep.

But she doesn't want to show up this drunk just in case her mother is still up. Because that's bound to go horribly.

She decides to walk it off.

  

***

 

_No, not again_ , she thinks when she realizes where her drunken feet have taken her.

She curses everything. She curses herself. She curses The Rabbit Hole and its cheap drinks. She curses August.

But above everything else, she curses the curse. 

_Fuck._

The porch light is on.

But she has the willpower to turn around, right?

She doesn't, though, as she discovers when she has already knocked on the door.

Regina is still in her work clothes when she opens the door (and how long days does she work anyway?) and her voice is cold as ice when she says, " _You_." 

"Expecting someone else?" Emma asks, grinning in a way she knows is stupid, but she's not in full control of her facial muscles right now.

"Go away," Regina says. 

"What?"

"Go. Away." The words are packed full of barely contained anger.

"Why?" Emma is a little confused.

"Because your presence here is unwanted." Even more anger.

"Oh? Suddenly it's unwanted?"

"I know all about you, Miss Swan. You have to go." Absolute fury.

"What do you mean you know all about me?" Because now Emma is really confused.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Regina says. 

"But..." Emma starts.

"No."

"Can I just... Can I ask one question?" Emma hates the way her words are a little slurred.

"No. You don't get to ask any questions." Regina turns around and is about to close the door when Emma opens her mouth and... 

... what comes out is, "Why do you hate my mother?" And why, why the hell does her intoxicated brain decide that this is the most important question right now? When any other question of the approximately two million questions she has would make more sense.

Regina freezes on the spot. For a moment Emma is sure that she's not going to get any reaction out of her.

But then Regina turns around and there's so much fire and fury in her eyes that Emma stumbles backwards when Regina takes a few steps towards her.

"Because, just like you, she has no regard for the lives she destroys," Regina says. Her voice is perfectly calm and quiet, devoid of any emotion. 

Emma is totally confused. "Wait. What? How am _I_ destroying anyone's life?" 

"Ask your son. His name is Henry, isn't it?"

"What's he got to do with anything?" Emma asks, suddenly angry.

"Everything," Regina says, awfully softly. "Now go. Please."

Her quietness, more than anything else, makes Emma turn around and walk away.

She feels a horrible mixture of sadness and anger and she's not sure where the sadness comes from.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

  

There's nobody at the docks where Emma's feet have taken her from Mifflin Street, and she slumps down on a bench, and that's when the tears come.

She didn't cry at the hospital when they told her there was nothing more they could do. She barely cried when she hugged Neal's unconscious form and begged him to stay with her, because she needed him, she loved him, she wasn't ready to be alone with Henry. She didn't cry when they unhooked the machines, because she kept wondering how on earth she was supposed to tell Henry that in real life, people don't always wake up as if by magic; sometimes, in real life, people just slip away and stop breathing.

She didn't cry at the funeral, because she was too focused on making soothing circles on Henry's back when he sobbed, and she hasn't spent more than a few moments alone since then.

She's been able to escape the grief, but now there's nowhere to run so she has no choice but to let all the pain and all the loss overcome her.

She feels lost without him, because, above anything else, he was her best friend, someone who understood her fucked-upness, someone who made her laugh, someone, the first one, who didn't look at her like she was a failure in all areas of her life. She's pretty sure nobody will be able to fill the hole he left in her heart. But maybe nobody is supposed to, maybe she's supposed to fill it herself.

The sobs shake her whole body and she feels cold.

It's almost two a.m. when she finally feels like her whole system has been drained of saltwater and alcohol.

She stares at the moon reflecting on the Atlantic Ocean. It's the same moon she saw that one night when she was nine or ten and, after a lot of begging, her father finally agreed to take her with him on one his night patrols, and they stopped at the docks and ate the sandwiches her mother had made for them, and sipped hot chocolate and coffee each from their own thermoses.

The memory emerges from somewhere deep within Emma. It's not something she has thought of in a long time. But it's hard to escape the memories in Storybrooke where everything reminds her of something.

_Rediscovering your roots._ That's what August called it. Is that what she is supposed to do in order for anything to start making sense again?

Emma buries her face in her hands. What does it even mean to rediscover your roots? It sounds painful, but then again, living a cursed life is painful, too.

She wipes off the remaining tears on her sleeve, a little angrily.

It's time to get some sleep.

 

***

  

On Friday morning Emma doesn't join the others for breakfast.

No one comes looking for her, no doubt because both her parents and Henry know she always sleeps in after she's been out late.

She hates that Henry knows that about her. These are the mornings when his dad got him ready for school or took him out for breakfast pizza (a strange habit they developed in New York – a habit Henry loved, of course) if it happened to be a weekend.

  

***

 

When she does properly wake up, it's because the doorbell rings.

She considers not going to see who's at the door, but then the doorbell rings again, and maybe it's some kind of a sheriff emergency, who knows.

She pulls on a pair of sweatpants and drags her feet to the door.

When she opens the door, she instantly regrets it. It's the one person she has known she wouldn't be able to avoid forever but who has, thankfully, been notably absent so far. Which, in itself, has been odd, because he's usually very ubiquitous in Storybrooke.

Gold.

There's always been something about Neal's father that makes her nervous. There's something dark in his eyes. It's not exactly... evilness, but it's a hint of underlying power and ruthlessness.

Standing on her parents' porch with him before her first cup of coffee is definitely not something Emma would be doing on any given morning if she had any choice in the matter. She was the one who called him with the news. She feels like she has done her part.

"Emma," he says simply. He is smiling.

"Mr. Gold," she says.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I'm... okay, I guess," Emma says.

"It's good to see you."

Emma doesn't feel like saying, _"You, too,"_  so she says, "You didn't come to the funeral."

"No... I... I thought he would have preferred it if I didn't come. And I was... busy." His smile falters a little, turns sadder.

"So you passed on the last opportunity to choose your son over your work," Emma says, feeling bold, and a little angry.

"Yes, I'm afraid I did indeed," Gold says. The smile is gone and now he just looks sad.

"I think you never understood how much he wanted you to have even a little interest in his life," Emma says, because she feels like she owes this to Neal. She wants Gold to feel at least some of the pain and bitterness Emma used to see in Neal's eyes anytime the subject of his father came up.

"May I remind you that the last time I showed interest in him, he slammed the door in my face." Now there's the slightest hint of annoyance in Gold's tone.

"Right. But here's the thing. Showing up at our doorstep unannounced just because you happened to have a business meeting near by was maybe not the best way of making amends with your son. He was just shocked, that's all. He regretted it the next day, but you had already left New York."

Neal actually cried that night. Emma had no idea how to handle that. They hadn't slept in the same bed in such a long time, but that night she held him. He was all embarrassed in the morning.

"I hear the boy is here with you."

"Yes, of course he is."

"Could I... Could I see him some day? After all, I am his grandfather."

"I'm... I'm not sure that's a good idea. He already has one new set of grandparents. That's a lot to digest." For some reason, the thought of Gold being anywhere near Henry makes the hair on the back of Emma's neck stand up.

"No, I know, but... Just know that it would mean a lot to me. Think about it, please."

"Fine, I'll think about it."

"Thank you, Emma."

Emma shrugs.

Just as Gold is about to turn to leave, he suddenly stops, looking like an afterthought has just hit him (but Emma has always suspected that with Gold, what seem like afterthoughts are sometimes the very reason he's talking to you in the first place). He points an index finger at Emma.

"Do you happen to have any idea why the Mayor might be asking questions about you?" Gold asks.

Emma's heart stops beating for a few milliseconds, and when it resumes its function, the pace is frantic. _"I know all about you, Miss Swan."_

"No, I don't," Emma says. Her limbs suddenly feel very cold.

"Because she came to see me yesterday. And believe me when I tell you that she was very interested in anything I know about you."

Of course. Of course Regina talked to Gold. Who else. But it's not like Gold is an expert on all things Emma Swan, right?

"No, I mean... She must've been just curious. We met briefly at the station the other day, and I hear she has a pretty complicated relationship with my parents," Emma says, because she can't, not without raising suspicion, ask the question that she wants to ask which is, _"What the hell did you tell her?"_

"I'm pretty sure that's not it. Because let me tell you, she's not my biggest fan either, so the fact that she was willing to put that aside tells me that for some reason she's more afraid of you than me." Gold looks at her with sharp eyes. There's the tiniest hint of danger in them.

People used to say he's the most powerful man in Storybrooke. Emma has no idea if it's true, but she wouldn't be surprised.

"I don't see how she could be afraid of someone she doesn't even know," Emma says, keeping her voice very steady.

"Are you sure you don't, say, know something about her that might hurt her?"

"Yes. I'm pretty sure. I don't know anything about her, honestly. Like I said, we've only met in passing."

"Ah. Well. Should you think of something, just know that I'm probably very interested in hearing whatever it is. And should you decide to share your knowledge with me, I would owe you a favor." Now Gold smiles again.

"Why?" Emma asks.

"Well, I believe everything should have a price. And a favor is as good a price as anything."

"No, why are you so interested?"

"Well, now that her... biggest benefactor is out of the picture, who knows what happens in the next election." Gold's smile turns into a smirk.

"Oh, right. People always said that everything is always about business transactions and town politics to you."

"That's an awfully forward way of putting it, dearie."

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"

"I like that about you, Emma. You are forward."

Emma shrugs again. "I guess I am."

Gold closes his eyes. When he opens them, there's an unreadable expression on his face. "Oh, by the way, I didn't really have a business meeting in Manhattan that day three years ago. The sole purpose of my trip was to see my son."

_What the actual fuck, dude?_ "What? Why would you say you had a meeting then?"

"I suppose I was afraid."

"What the... hell was there to be afraid of? He was your son." Emma knows she now definitely sounds angry, but it's okay, because she _is_ angry.

"Isn't that reason enough? Have a good day."

He turns and limps away.

If Emma thought she was confused the night before, she is even more confused now. 

She knows two things she didn't know yesterday.

The first thing she knows is that it's possible Gold wasn't as indifferent towards Neal as Neal always thought, up until the day he died.

And the second thing she knows is that Gold is very likely planning something devious that's somehow related to Regina's position as mayor.

Emma is not sure which bit of knowledge unnerves her hazy, caffeine-deprived mind more.

 

***

  

After analyzing Gold's weird visit over breakfast, Emma gets properly dressed and looks out of the window. It's yet another beautiful day in October. She's turning twenty-nine in a week, she realizes.

The fence is painted, and she and David even mowed the lawn the previous day. Normally not knowing what to do would mean that Emma would feel the first stirrings of panic hit her right about now.

But there's nothing to be afraid of right now. She gave her pain the chance to devour her completely the night before and it didn't. If anything, her lonesome meltdown left her feeling empty in a way that's not entirely uncomfortable.

Besides, thanks to the weird events of the day and night before and Gold's visit, Emma is feeling something new today.

Curiosity mixed with no small amount of anger.

She is so thankful for this change in her emotional state that she decides to give in to it, at least a little.

She knows from what Neal told her about his father that Gold can be a pretty nasty person, 'a scheming son of a bitch', as Neal put it, so there's no point poking that particular beehive, especially considering the fact that it might get really dangerous really fast. And Emma has no interest in being a part of any of his nefarious plans. She has always had zero interest in town politics.

But Gold is not the only one who angers her at the moment.

Regina already broke the rules by asking around about Emma, so it's only fair she does the same. It's not right that Regina gets to judge Emma based on something Gold told her when Emma doesn't know the first thing about her. Besides, she suggested that whatever incriminating thing it was that she found out about Emma concerns Henry, too, and that was definitely a dirty move.

It's definitely not because Emma is concerned or anything. She's just curious, and there's time to be killed, and they are never ever sleeping with each other again, so it can't hurt to find out everything there is to know about Regina Mills, and see if she is in any position to judge anyone at all.

 

***

 

A search online doesn't reveal much. Most hits are for articles in the online edition of Storybrooke Daily Mirror. (And who is this Sidney Glass and why does he use so many bad puns in his articles?) 

Apparently Regina became mayor four years ago. Since then, she's been doing mundane stuff like attending a lot of business and gallery openings, cutting the sheriff department's budget in order to allocate more funds to road maintenance, having a new playground built, reducing the town's carbon footprint, and posing for a lot of photos with a lot of important-looking people.

The photos on the Daily Mirror website are small and bad quality so it's difficult to recognize anyone. Gold is in a handful of the photos, but the person who is the most recurring figure in them is an older woman who looks somewhat familiar but whom Emma can't identify.

In one photo the woman has her arm slung around Regina's shoulders in a way that suggests that they know each other pretty well. Regina looks slightly uncomfortable in the photo, but cameras are known to do weird things to people's expressions so Emma isn't sure if there's anything more to that. 

But the internet doesn't really reveal anything of real interest. Because not even in Storybrooke does the local paper publish people's deepest, darkest secrets. No social media profiles pop up, either, but then again, somehow Emma can't imagine Regina as the type who would tweet pictures of food, so she's not surprised.

 

***

  

Where do you go in Storybrooke when you want to uncover someone's deepest, darkest secrets if you don't want to go to Gold, Archie Hopper or the Sheriff, and you definitely don't want to draw any attention to your investigation? Emma has no idea.

So, her first instinct is to go to her only friend.

There's an unfamiliar young woman at the front desk at Granny's B&B. She's dressed in an almost non-existent red skirt, and there are red highlights in her black hair.

"Hello," the woman says, a curious glint in her eyes.

"Hey," Emma says. "I'm looking for August. August Booth?"

"I guess you don't remember me?" the woman says.

"Err," Emma is suddenly at a loss of words. Is she supposed to? "No? Who are you?"

"Ruby Lucas. Granny's granddaughter?"

"Oh. Right. Ruby. I might remember you?" To be honest, she doesn't, which could be because she guesses Ruby is at least five years younger than she is.

"Well, I remember you," Ruby says. "Emma," she adds, leaning against the front desk, her voice a playful purr.

"Oh- _kay_... Great. So. August? Where can I find him?" Emma asks, her patience starting to grow thin.

"Is he your boyfriend?" Ruby asks, twirling a strand of hair around her index finger.

What's with the third degree, really? But there's something amusing about Ruby so Emma decides not to be mean. "No. He's a manboy I'm friends with."

"Cool," Ruby says, flashing a smile.

"What? You interested? I suggest staying very far away from him. I wasn't kidding when I said 'manboy'."

"Right," Ruby says, smiling even wider. "He's in his room."

"And which room might that be?"

"The only one that's occupied, I guess," Ruby says.

  

***

  

Finding the only occupied room means pounding on doors until there's a muffled, "No!" sounding from behind one of them.

"August?" Emma calls.

There is no reply.

The door is unlocked, though, as Emma discovers as she nudges it and it opens.

August, thankfully fully clothed, is lying on his back on the bed, completely still.

"Are you okay?" Emma asks.

"The world feels very heavy today," August says.

And, yeah, there's no mistaking either the aroma in the air or the joint and lighter on August's bedside table.

"Oh my god. You are high," Emma says, more exasperated than shocked.

"No," August says, but his eyes are the slightest bit too wide open.

Emma rolls her eyes. That's the one vice she never picked up, not even when she was young and stupid. She always knew that the day her father smelled pot on her would've been the day she would have found herself either dead or home-schooled and grounded for life (not that grounding her ever worked that well...).

"Yes, you are. You do know it's barely noon?" she points out.

"It's always nine p.m. somewhere," August says.

"Even with my knowledge of how time zones work, I'm pretty sure that's not true," Emma says.

"Oh, Emma, always the skeptic. All you have to do is believe and anything is possible," August says.

" _Okay._ Come on, get up. I need your help with something," Emma says.

August groans. "When I offered my friendship, I didn't realize it meant being at your disposal twenty-four seven."

"Well, too bad." 

With great and exaggerated difficulty, August sits up on the bed. "Fine. What do you need help with?"

"I'm..." And what is it exactly that she's doing? "I'm trying to find information on... someone."

"And who would that be?" August asks.

"Just... someone," Emma says.

August closes his eyes and scratches his beard. His voice is groggy when he speaks, "Okay, Emma, I don't know if you know this, but I can't help you if you don't let me help you, and letting me help you means telling me things about whatever it is you need help with."

"Right."

"So who is it?"

"The Mayor," Emma says.

"Regina Mills?" August opens his eyes.

"Do you... know her?" Emma asks. Could it be this easy?

"No. I mean, I know _of_ her, but I don't know her."

"So what exactly _can_ you tell me about her?"

"Well, some people seem to think she's somewhat... bitchy. At least that's what I've inferred from what I've heard at Granny's."

_Oh yeah._ "That I know already. Is there anything else?"

"Depends on what it is you want to know."

"Anything. She's around your age, isn't she? Do you... remember anything?"

"Anything? Really? Why?"

"No reason."

"Very convincing, Emma. Let's see. We went to school together, yes, but I don't know, I don't think we had any mutual friends. She kept to herself, I guess, so I don't even remember if she had any friends. Maybe, maybe not. Oh, except I remember her dating this guy, what was his name... Daniel something. I didn't know him very well either, but he seemed like a nice guy. They were pretty tight, but, oh well, seems like that didn't last. That happens, like you and I both well know... Or it could be that he just moved away, I don't remember." August falls silent.

"Is that all? Really?"

"Yes, that's all. It's not like we were best buddies or anything. Like I said, I only ever saw her around school and I'm sure you remember how little I enjoyed spending time at places of learning." 

"I need more," Emma says more to herself than to August.

"Why, Emma? Why?"

_Because the person you and the internet are describing doesn't sound like someone who would hang out in hotel bars in Boston and hate my mother._ "Just curious," she says.

"I don't know much about the goings-on of Storybrooke in the last decade, but, I suppose, for more information on the Mayor's formative years, ask your mother. I mean, if that's something you're interested in for whatever reason," August says.

And did Emma accidentally say the part about her mother aloud? "What do you mean ask my mother?"

"I'm pretty sure Regina was in her class."

The sound of Emma's heartbeat in her own ears reaches thunderous levels. "Really?"

"Yes. Or I might be remembering completely wrong. That has been known to happen."

There's only one way of finding out that doesn't involve asking her mother. 

"Wait, Emma. Are you just going to leave? Don't I even get a thank you for all my remembering efforts? A gold star for not asking any more questions as to your reasons for your inquiries, maybe?" 

"Thanks, August," Emma says, smiling at his pathetic expression. "You can get back to grounding yourself in the world or whatever it was you were doing."

August lies down on the bed again and sighs. "I'm stuck," he says. "I can't move. I can't write. I can't do anything."

"I'm sure you'll be feeling better soon enough."

"I'm not sure, Emma."

"Come on, take your own advice. Try to believe."

August laughs. It's a tired, low laugh.

  

***

 

"Bye, Emma. See you around," Ruby says as Emma passes the front desk on her way out. She waves at her overenthusiastically. 

"Err. Bye, Ruby. See you, I guess," Emma says.

What is it with all the people in this town acting so weird all of a sudden?

  

***

  

Emma does realize there's something slightly obsessive about the way she, herself, is acting.

But she keeps leafing through the albums full of class photos that Mary Margaret keeps in a huge box. All the photos have a list of names written under them in Mary Margaret's neat handwriting.

Emma knows she's obsessing, but she can't stop now, not when the angry curiosity is burning bright and pushing her forward. (And, because she knows that if she stopped, she would probably just end up doing something idiotic like taking the toaster apart and then trying to put it back together with no success.)

And there it is suddenly.

Back row, second from the left, young girl with dark hair in two braids, smiling shyly, holding a stick horse; _Regina Mills_ , written in Mary Margaret's handwriting under the picture.

Mary Margaret herself is very young in the photo, still in her twenties. She's wearing a ridiculous baby blue eighties cardigan, and her hair is much longer than it's these days. Emma barely remembers her like that.

Emma stares at the dark-haired girl, and at Mary Margaret, and she has no idea what to think.

_What the hell happened?_ But the people in the photo don't give her any answers.

Then she hears the sound of two people talking in the yard so she hurries to put the albums away.

  

***

  

Emma has barely managed to assume a casual pose on the couch by the time her mother and Henry get in.

"Hey," she greets them.

"Hey, yourself," Mary Margaret says.

Henry looks uncertain, like he's searching Emma's expression for signs of anything bad, but Emma smiles at him and that's when he smiles, too.

He sprints towards the guestroom, shouting, "I'll be doing homework!" like it's the most exciting thing in the world.

That makes Emma stop smiling. She stands up, walks over to where her mother is standing in the hallway and asks, in a hushed voice, "You gave him homework? Even though we are leaving?"

"What? I didn't know you are..." Mary Margaret starts, but her sentence gets interrupted when Henry reappears in the hallway.

He looks horrified, when he asks, "We are leaving?"

And damn kids and their uncanny ability to hear everything that they are not supposed to. It's like their ears are especially attuned to hushed voices.

"No, I mean, not right now, kid. But you know we can't stay here forever," Emma says, cursing herself.

"Why?" Henry asks like it's a legitimate question.

"Well, for one thing, I'm sure mom and dad will eventually get tired of us taking up space in their house," Emma says.

"No, it's okay. We love having you here, Henry. And you, too, Emma, of course," Mary Margaret says. (And yeah, Emma wishes the latter part didn't sound so much like covering a slip-up.)

"And I like it here," Henry says.

"Yeah, but still. Your teacher in Boston will probably be wondering where you have disappeared. I told him you'd be absent for a week, max," Emma says. 

"Yeah, but I hate him, and I hate that stupid school, and I hate Boston," Henry says, looking like he's about to start crying and no, no, no, Emma doesn't want to see him cry any more.

"Emma, you know I can arrange Henry's temporary transfer to Storybrooke Elementary any day. I'll just have to talk to the Principal, but I don't think it's going to be a problem. There's almost a shortage of school-aged children in Storybrooke anyway," Mary Margaret says.

"Yes, but..." Emma starts.

But Henry says, "Please, mom, please," even though he never calls Emma 'mom' and Mary Margaret smiles her sad smile, and says, "I had thought we could all celebrate your birthday together next week", and Henry says, "Yeah! That would be so cool!" 

And it's not like Emma has anything to go back to in Boston so she has no choice but to say, "Okay, I guess we can stick around for a little longer."

What's a few more days of rediscovering her roots, after all? The worst part is surely over, right?

 


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

 

 

The weekend means seemingly endless rain, and that means some quality family time indoors.

In other words, torturously many hours of Monopoly, Discovery Channel, and nachos.

By the time David's phone rings on Sunday evening, and he wipes his guacamole-stained hands on the front of his plaid shirt ("Charming, David," Mary Margaret says disapprovingly and Henry giggles) before answering, and after he has answered the phone he says, "Yes, of course, I'll be right there," and after ending the call asks, "Hey, Emma, do you wanna come with me? I could really use a second pair of eyes on this one," she's thinking, _T_ _hank god, hell yeah_ _,_ _anything to_ _get me out of this house_ _._

"Sure, why not," she says, not even caring what she's getting into. It's probably something along the lines of finding a cat that got lost in the rain.

"Can I come, too?" Henry asks.

"No, sorry, Henry. It's almost your bedtime, and this might take a while," David says.

 

***

 

They are already in the truck, and on their way (the rain looking like a tsunami outside the car) by the time Emma thinks to ask where it is they are going, and then it's too late to change her mind about coming along when David says, "Someone broke into Regina's office."

 

***

  

"Took you long enough, Sheriff," Regina says in a scathing tone. She is standing outside Town Hall with an umbrella, dressed in a black coat, not a single strand of hair misplaced, seemingly unaffected by the weather conditions.

"Can't drive much faster in the rain," David says, pulling on a rain jacket with the text 'Storybrooke Sheriff's Department' written across the back.

And that's when Regina notices Emma, dressed in a similar rain jacket that's way too big for her. "What is she doing here?" Regina asks, sounding slightly horrified.

"I asked her to come along," David says.

"This is official sheriff business, not something any wayward traveler can feel free to attend to," Regina says. Her voice is extremely cold.

"Come on, Regina." David chuckles. "She's not some wayward traveler. She's my daughter. Besides, I'm trying to convince her to become my new deputy."

_Really? That wasn't a joke?_

"You haven't had a deputy in years. I thought you neither needed nor wanted one." The latter half of Regina's snide reply sounds like she's paraphrasing a direct quote from David. Which she probably is, because it sounds exactly like something David would say in one of his more stubborn moods.

"Well, I _am_ getting older. And it's in my budget. Even after the cuts you made," David points out.

"I suppose it is," Regina says awfully begrudgingly. Then she looks at Emma. "I didn't know you were staying in town, Miss Swan."

"Oh, I'm... I'm not," Emma says simultaneously with David asking, "How do you... How do you know her last name?" (And damn him for having his occasional lucid moments.)

"I'm the Mayor. I know everything," Regina says, completely unfazed, and Emma has to hand it to her that she's very good at that whole bitchy, omnipotent mayor act. Momentarily she wonders how much of it _is_ an act.

"Right. So what's the situation here?" David asks.

Regina casts one last suspicious look at Emma, but then she sighs. "I was driving by and saw someone in my office."

"You saw someone?"

"Yes, I saw someone." 

"But the alarm didn't go off?"

"No."

"Are you absolutely sure you saw someone? I mean, it is raining pretty hard and visibility's not great."

"Yes, of course I am sure. They had a flashlight."

"Does anyone else besides you know the security code?"

"Of course not."

"Right. Did you check if anything's missing?"

"No. I assumed you would want access to the crime scene before it's been tampered with."

"Right, of course."

"Well, then, shall we get to it?" Regina asks impatiently.

"Oh. Of course," David says.

 

***

 

"I'm not sure someone broke in," David says to Emma in a low voice when Regina is out of the earshot.

"Well, unless the ceiling leaks, the trail of water on the floor would suggest that's what happened," Emma says because she can't help noticing the drops of rainwater that start at the door and end by Regina's desk.

"Oh," David says.

"Maybe you should invest in a pair of glasses instead of a deputy," Emma points out.

"Your mother keeps telling me the same thing," David says, scratching the back of his head.

"Find anything, Sheriff?" Regina asks from behind them.

"Yeah. Someone's been here. But I don't understand how the security system wouldn't react to that," David says.

Emma's eyes dart to the door and... Yep, a good old reed switch.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it._ Emma is pretty sure her father hasn't been able to hold on to his job for this long for his crime-solving skills.

Emma is so not willing to do this, and she hates that in moments like these she can still occasionally hear her mother's voice from years ago in her head saying, _"Emma,_ _honey_ _,_ _doing the right thing isn't always easy_ _. But sometimes you have to choose the hard path."_ It's annoyingly impossible to ignore that stupid voice with her father looking confused right next to her and Regina looking like she's about to fire him on the spot.

"I think I know how that's possible," Emma says because it's the right thing to do.

"You do?" David asks. 

"Yeah. I know exactly how someone would bypass a security system like this," she says. 

"How?" David asks. Regina doesn't say anything. She just looks skeptical.

Emma sighs and goes to examine the doorframe closely. She's grateful when she spots two wires, visible where the wood has been chipped a little.

"Okay," she says. "The alarm on the door consists of a magnet and a switch which sounds an alarm if the door is opened when the security system is active... But the thing is, it's quite easy to... Let's see... The intruder would only have to remove a little bit of the insulation on the wires right about here and... Yes. That right there recreates the circuit so the alarm doesn't go off."

She points at the small piece of wire wiggled around the pre-existing ones, barely visible on the doorframe.

"That's... That's amazing," David says, looking genuinely impressed. He probably shouldn't, but luckily sheriff work in Storybrooke doesn't involve solving a lot of break-ins. It _is_ more about finding cats in the rain, and her father has always been very good at finding cats.

Regina, however, does not look impressed. Instead, she says, "You seem very adept at breaking and entering."

"I've been around," Emma says, shrugging. There are certain things one learns when living with a mostly reformed master thief. But that's none of Regina's business. It isn't even her father's business even though she is pretty certain her father knows perfectly well who the source of her knowledge is.

"No doubt you have," Regina says, voice full of contempt. Then her eyes narrow. "How do I know you had nothing to do with this?"

"Why exactly would I break into your office?" Emma asks, looking Regina directly in the eye, raising an eyebrow and challenging her to voice any of the things she's probably thinking. She knows Regina won't, not with Emma's father standing there, looking between the two of them in confusion.

There's at least as much challenge in Regina's voice when she says, "Well, the talk around town suggests that you are no stranger to problems with the law. And I don't know what your kind do for fun. All I know is, it's quite suspect that something like this would happen just when you arrive in town when nothing like this ever happened before."

"Alright, Regina, that's enough. Let's not... Let's not start with the conspiracy theories," David says. 

"Well, Sheriff, how well do you know your spawn?" Regina asks David while still maintaining eye contact with Emma. Emma almost feels a cold hand wrap itself around her heart at the iciness of the gaze.

"My spawn? I'd like to think I know my daughter pretty well. And I know for a fact that she had nothing to do with this. The whole idea is ridiculous, and I'm sure you know that, too," David says, and while Emma has noticed that he has become a lot mellower as he has aged, now it finally sounds like he's about to lose his temper.

"Is that so?" Regina asks, still watching Emma.

"Yes," David says.

"Well, in that case, Sheriff, find out who did this," Regina says, her eyes finally breaking the contact with Emma's. 

"And that's exactly what I'd like to find out if you just let me do my job," David says.

"Fine," Regina says.

 

***

  

David spends a good part of an hour looking for any more signs of forced entry, or anything that would be a clue as to who did this, but there seems to be nothing to be found. 

Regina goes through her things, but claims nothing's missing. Her computer is untouched, too.

Emma keeps hanging around in the background, not willing to cause any further drama. She pays attention to the space she's in, though. The office is decorated in black and white, almost to a ridiculous extent. It's a much more aggressive space than Regina's house.

When she glances out of the window, she notices an apple tree that's being assailed by the downpour. The ground is red with wet, fallen apples.

  

***

 

On the drive back, Emma is dying to ask her father questions. Her questions are mostly about Regina, but she's not sure how to approach the topic. Finally, she decides on a pretty ineloquent, "So what's her deal exactly?"

"Regina?" David asks.

"Yeah. What do you know about her?"

"Not much. The only thing that matters to me is that, despite everything, she's really doing a good job of managing this town."

"Right. So you don't know anything... personal about her? Does she have any family or... anything?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I guess I'm just wondering if anyone's willing to put up with her."

"One might wonder, right?" David smiles. "Well. I don't think she has any family left. Her mother passed away pretty suddenly last year. Heart attack, I think."

"Her mother?"

"Yes, Cora Mills. I think she had a lot to do with Regina becoming mayor in the first place. She was a real powerful lady."

"More powerful than Gold?" Emma asks, because she's wondering how many powerful people fit in a town this size.

"At least equally so. Funny you should mention Gold, though..."

"Why's that funny?" Emma asks, suddenly a little curious in a different way. She hasn't been able to get Gold's visit out of her head.

"Some people, well, many people, seemed to think that they were having an affair," David says.

"Regina's mother and... Gold?" Emma asks, because it's a bit too much. Small towns never cease to amaze.

"Yeah. Apparently that was something that went on for years. You know, even when Cora's husband was still around," David says.

"Huh. I never knew Gold was such a stud." Emma feels deeply disturbed.

"What do you mean?" David asks.

"August mentioned something about him dating a hot Australian these days," Emma says.

"Oh, right, Belle," David says and he's suddenly smiling.

"Why is _that_ funny?" Emma asks.

"Well, don't tell anyone I said this, but she has a bit of a wild streak..."

"A wild streak?"

"Yeah. She works as a librarian by day but apparently she also occasionally performs as a... as an exotic dancer in this... bar on Park Lane. Except she uses the name Lacey there."

"And you know this... how?" Emma asks even though she's not sure she wants to hear the answer.

"Well, I'm the Sheriff," David says, but the tips of his ears are too red.

"Oh-kay. Don't worry, I won't tell mom." And she won't because she's already busy purging her mind of the image of her father ever setting foot in a strip joint.

"Thanks... It was just that one time Michael and I had a bit too much to drink and Leroy was there, too, and... "

"Please, dad, no details."

David looks sheepish. Then he turns serious. "So, have you considered my offer?"

"What offer?" Emma asks.

"The deputy job?" David says, not looking like he's joking.

"Yeah... I didn't realize that was something you were seriously suggesting."

"Why not?"

"Well, first of all, I'm not staying here for much longer."

"You could. You know, if you wanted to. I mean, it doesn't have to be forever – could be six months, could be a year or two."

"And why would I want to stay in Storybrooke? Even for six months?" Emma asks.

"I don't know. Is there some place where you'd rather be?"

If Emma is completely honest, there's only one answer, "Not really."

"Well, then, there's your answer."

And she has to admit there's been a certain pattern to her movements in the past few years. First New York, then Boston, both getting closer to where she is now. And she knows Henry would probably love staying, but...

Emma sighs. If only it was that easy.

For a second she wonders how Regina would react to the news. Not great, she guesses. She's disturbed to realize that she finds it almost tempting to find out just how bad the reaction would be.

Still not reason enough to stay, though.

  

***

  

Emma barely sleeps that night. She keeps lying awake and thinking about Storybrooke and how it's already getting under her skin.

She keeps thinking about all the weird stuff that's happened. Gold's threats. The break-in. Her father offering her a job. The wonderful irony of the nature of the job.

It's four a.m.

No matter what she tries to think, her thoughts keep wandering back to the three topics. Gold. Regina. The break-in.

She wonders if there could be a connection there. But of course there isn't.

She keeps thinking about all the things Neal told her about growing up with his workaholic father. She knows that Gold is not beyond dirty tricks when he's curious about something or someone. He even put a GPS tracker in his son's car once. He preferred that kind of thing to actually talking to Neal, because it meant he could follow his movements from the comfort of his office between meetings – meetings he was always in when Neal needed something from him.

She wonders, again, if there could possibly be a connection between Gold's visit and the break-in.

She tries to convince herself that those things can't be in any way related. And even if there was a connection, she would certainly be in no way obligated to share what she knows with anyone. Especially not with Regina. 

She curses the way she can hear her mother's voice in her head again. What's so great about doing the right thing anyway? When the world almost never does the same?

And maybe the whole break-in thing was just a stupid prank by some teenagers who just happened to be skilled at disabling alarm systems (and it's not like anyone can't go on the internet and learn that stuff). Nothing was taken from the office after all. The computer was untouched. Which, again, doesn't make sense. Because usually when people break in, they take at least something. Or...

_Crap._ There's one thing neither she nor David considered.

She glances at the clock. Six a.m. _Fuck_. 

She needs to think somewhere that's not here.

She gets up, carefully trying not to disturb Henry who's sleeping in the other bed in the guestroom, and goes to the hallway. She skims through her mother's shoe collection until she finally comes across a pair of running shoes that seem like a right fit. She snatches the spare key from the bowl on the small table, and exits the house, as silently as possible. 

The sun isn't up yet, and won't be for a while, and the streets are still wet, but it's not raining anymore. Emma feels her toes get soaked almost immediately, but she has Sonic Youth blasting in her earphones, and she's full of nervous, angry energy. 

Fuck.

She keeps thinking back to Gold's ominous words.

Fucking hell.

She shouldn't care.

But this also concerns her father because he's the one responsible for investigating the incident.

This time it's Sonic Youth and not alcohol that's fueling her feet.

Stupid feet.

The Mercedes is still parked in front of the house when she reaches 108 Mifflin Street. Of course it is. Even though it's Monday, it's fucking six thirty in the morning.

She's pretty sure she's gonna have a door slammed in her face.

But fortunately or un-, that's when she notices that Regina is out in the yard, holding a mug of something, examining a... plant of some kind that grows by one of the windows.

"Madam Mayor," Emma says when she's close enough. She's slightly out of breath after running.

When Regina turns around, Emma realizes that she's already dressed for work, sans the heels, but she isn't wearing any makeup yet. It's not an unattractive look, not in the least. She looks... downright domestic and much more like the dark-haired girl in the class photo Emma saw than she has looked ever before.

Her voice, however, is quite as stern as Emma expected it to be when she says, "Miss Swan. How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my life?"

"Many, apparently," Emma says drily. "But this time you're going to want to hear me out."

"Doubtful. You can't be here."

"I know. But I think I might know something about the break-in."

"Then talk to the Sheriff."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's about you talking to Gold."

Regina looks at Emma weirdly, like she's checking if she's lying. Then she says, extremely curtly, "Follow me."

"What?"

"Follow. Me. You can't expect us to have this conversation out in the open."

_Ooh, a conversation?_ Somehow Emma can't imagine that's what's gonna happen. An actual conversation would be way too rational and normal human behavior. But she follows Regina as she enters the house.

Once inside the house, Emma can't help looking around in wonder. She wonders if, in addition to being powerful, Cora Mills was also wealthy. Probably, as the two attributes tend to go hand in hand. Coming from a family of means would certainly explain the grandeur of Regina's living conditions.

Emma also really wishes she could forget why she was here the previous time. It's hard to do with Regina looking like that.

Regina's voice startles Emma when she says, "Quit gawking and start talking. Isn't that what you came here to do?"

Emma rolls her eyes, but yeah, that is what she came here to do. This time. "Look, lady, I know you talked to Gold. And you really, really shouldn't have talked to him."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because Gold came to see me and asked me questions about you."

"What?" For a moment, Regina looks terrified, but the terror is quickly replaced by anger, which, then, turns into a neutral expression. It all seems to happen in a matter of milliseconds. Learning that kind of control takes a lot of practice.

"Yeah. He asked me if there was anything I knew about you that could hurt you," Emma says.

Regina keeps tapping her fingers on her mug (coffee, black, Emma notices), and not looking at Emma when she asks, "What did you tell him?"

Emma fights the urge to roll her eyes again. "Nothing of course. Like I told you once before, I'm not stupid."

"I don't need your protection," Regina says, but there's a relieved expression on her face before it takes on the neutral mask again.

"And I can assure you I have no interest in protecting you. But I also have no interest in being a part of Gold's machinations. I've seen what he does to people."

"And by people I assume you mean your fiancé who passed away?"

Emma feels momentarily shaken up by the words. _E_ _x-fiancé_ , she wants to amend but it wouldn't make sense, and it's way too personal, and she feels angry at Regina for asking around for information about her, and she's not about to give Regina anything more. All of that is completely irrelevant here. There's one thing she feels like she needs to make clear, though, "Look, whatever Gold told you was probably a close approximation of the truth at best. Don't think you really know anything about me."

"Oh, I think I know enough to see you for who you really are," Regina says, a faraway look in her eyes.

"And who is that?" Emma asks because she's morbidly curious. And fuck those brown eyes and their fleeting sadness, and how the sadness tugs at something sad in Emma.

Regina doesn't reply, but, instead, asks, "How long are you planning on staying in Storybrooke? I expected you to be back in Boston by now."

"So did I. The only reason I'm still here is because my son wanted to have a few more days with his grandparents." Why she feels like sharing even this much, she doesn't know. 

"Look at you having your son's best interests in mind." Regina's tone is sarcastic. Of course it is. Because she is the most aggravating person Emma has met in a long time.

"Listen. I, like, really don't care what you think about me, but leave Henry out of it." Anger threatens to take over again, but Emma forces herself to voice what she came here to say, "Anyway, if I were you, I'd check the office for bugs. Not like... cockroaches and stuff, but like... listening devices." 

"Bugs? Really?" Regina looks at Emma like she can imagine someone looking at a person who suddenly starts talking about alien invasions.

"Yeah. Gold is planning something that has to do with the next election, he's asking around for dirt on you, and he's a really twisted human being. Him bugging your office would make sense and explain why nothing was taken."

"That's... ludicrous, Miss Swan. This is Storybrooke, Maine, not Washington, D.C. or a James Bond movie."

_A Bond movie? Really? Like you've ever seen one._ Bond movies remind Emma of Neal and Henry's spy movie nights.

"Well, think what you want. But like I said, if I were you, I'd check. Just to make sure," Emma says.

"And if I were you, I'd mind my own business," Regina says.

"Oh, trust me, from now on, I will."

"And do try to stay out of my way while you loiter around town."

"Oh, I definitely will."

"Good. I'm glad we agree. Goodbye, Miss Swan," Regina says, opening the door in a pointed manner.

"Whatever."

When Emma steers her feet back towards her parents' house, she feels oddly free, though. She shared her knowledge like a decent human being. It's up to Regina to decide what to do with that knowledge now.

_Now_ she has definitely done her part.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Interlude II**

 

_The most tender place in my heart is for strangers_

_I know it's unkind, but my own blood is much too dangerous_  

 

(Neko Case – _Hold_ _O_ _n_ _, Hold On_ )

  

**VI**

 

Something is different about the atmosphere in the house when Emma, socks wet and stomach growling for breakfast, gets back from her morning run.

Her parents are in the kitchen and if Emma didn't know them, it would sound like they are arguing about something.

Her parents never outright argue like that. At least they never did back in the old days.

She considers going back to bed for a while in order to avoid ending up in the middle of whatever drama is going on between them, but the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifting from the kitchen is very tempting.

She doesn't have to make a decision, though, because that's when David emerges from the kitchen, badge and holster in place. He doesn't look angry, not exactly, but he looks very serious and slightly confused when he says, "Oh, hey, Emma. Did you go for a run?"

"Yeah," Emma says. "You going to work already?" 

"I am. I have an early morning meeting with the Mayor," David says.

Ah. So that's why Regina was up so early. Or maybe she's always fully dressed and examining plants by six thirty in the morning. Not that Emma really cares, either way.

"Good luck with that," Emma says.

"Thanks. You want me to say hi from you?" David asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. So maybe it wasn't a serious fight if David is joking already.

"I'm sure she would appreciate that," Emma says. _Not._

"Right. Bye," David says. He chuckles all the way out of the house.

Mary Margaret is in the kitchen and she looks considerably less cheerful than David when she says, "Good morning, Emma."

"Morning," Emma says. She considers feigning ignorance, but damn it if she isn't susceptible to other people's sadnesses these days. As she pours herself a mug of coffee, she says, "I know it's none of my business, but... Did you and dad have a fight?"

"It was... It was nothing," Mary Margaret says, but she looks fidgety.

"Didn't sound like nothing," Emma says.

"No, it's just that David reminded me that we promised to visit Fred and Kathryn tonight and... I'm not so enthusiastic about that. Besides, it's not right to leave you and Henry on your own," Mary Margaret says.

"Oh, don't worry about us. You are allowed to live your life quite normally while we are here. Besides, I haven't had much time with Henry since we came here. You know, just the two of us. It would be nice, I think," Emma says.

"No, I know, it's just that... I see Fred every day at work and we're friends and all, but, well, quite honestly, I don't really like Kathryn."

"You don't like Kathryn? Why?" For some reason Emma is confused by that. She always thought of her gym teacher and his wife as her parents' boring couple friends. She never saw anything that suggested that Mary Margaret had a problem with either one of them.

"I know I must sound like a horrible person, but... I think she's just too nice," Mary Margaret says.

"Too nice? Really, mom? You know some people might say that about you, too, but everybody still likes you." Well, not _quite_ everybody, apparently, as Emma has recently learned.

"I'm not _that_ nice," Mary Margaret says.

"Oh, I know," Emma says, but she smiles, because, really, she doesn't feel like rubbing any salt into any old wounds right now. "But people still think so, and I don't think they hate you for it. So what's your real beef with Kathryn?"

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable talking about this..." Mary Margaret seems uncertain.

"Try me. I've heard some messed up crap in the past twelve years," Emma says.

"Oh, right." Mary Margaret seems to contemplate this for a while, but then she speaks, "It's... David and I had a pretty rough patch for a while and... David talked to Kathryn a lot during that time. I mean, I know they are just close friends and all, but I guess I was offended by the fact that he felt like he couldn't talk to me, but he could talk to her. My relationship with Kathryn has been a bit strained since then."

Emma's parents having a rough patch? That's a strange thought. If anything, Emma has always thought her parents have the sort of relationship that can weather any storm. And she remembers the way they looked at each other just last week when they were at the Toll Bridge. Their eyes were still so full of adoration for each other, even after thirty years of marriage.

"When was this?" Emma asks.

"Well, it was... It was after you... No, you know what? We don't have to talk about this," Mary Margaret says.

"After I what?" Emma asks, dreading the answer. When Mary Margaret still looks hesitant (which in itself tells Emma the answer), she adds, "Come on, mom." She feels like she needs to hear it.

"After you... You know, left," Mary Margaret says softly. "For a while it felt like we had nothing keeping us together." 

Hearing it said aloud doesn't make it any less shocking. "I'm sorry," Emma says even though the words feel feeble compared to the suffocating sense of absolute guilt that's making her nauseated. So, her foolishness almost destroyed not just her own life but also her parents' relationship. A relationship that's the closest to a fucking fairytale romance Emma has ever witnessed. _Well done, Emma_ _, fucking A+._  

"No, don't be. It wasn't your fault that we had our own issues we had to work through at the time. But I guess it was my fault that you didn't feel like you could talk to me either." Mary Margaret looks like she is close to tears.

"No, mom, it was not that..." It was, though. A little. But it was equal parts that and Emma's stubbornness and unwillingness to even try. She wonders if it's possible that she has inherited all the negative personality traits her parents have but none of the good ones.

"What is it that I keep doing wrong?" Mary Margaret asks. Her voice is shaky.

"Nothing, mom, really. It's just that... Sometimes you might come across as a little... judgy. I'm sure you don't mean to."

"Judgy? Really? I... I certainly don't meant to." Mary Margaret frowns. "But I guess I do sometimes speak before I think."

"It's a family trait, I guess," Emma says, shrugging.

"It might be," Mary Margaret says.

"Anyway, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about with Kathryn and all."

"I know. Sometimes I'm just... reminded of that bad time and I get just the tiniest bit uncertain even though I know it's stupid." Mary Margaret is almost smiling.

"That's alright. And it's alright not to like her. But hey, if you decide to go visit them tonight, you can always avoid talking to Kathryn and just talk to Fred about... football and stuff."

"Oh, yes, I know so much about football. Do the Pats still play?" Mary Margaret asks, but she laughs. It's a teary-eyed laugh, but she laughs and the sound untangles something in Emma's chest – some buried regret or guilt that seems to be getting closer to the surface the longer she stays in Storybrooke.

"I believe they do," Emma says, but she doesn't really follow football either and neither does Henry so... Yeah.

"Are you sure you and Henry will be fine here?" Mary Margaret asks.

"Yeah. Totally."

"Okay, great. I guess I'll have to apologize to David. I did say some harsh things." 

"You do that. Though he didn't seem too upset," Emma says. Suddenly she also feels like saying, "And mom? Thank you."

"For what?" Mary Margaret asks.

"For... not asking too many questions. About Neal, I mean," Emma says.

"Oh. You know, we have been through a lot of losses. And by 'we' I mean your father and I. Some have been easier, but some have been very, very difficult... And it's not always easy to talk about those. You know, David still doesn't like talking about James."

James. Right. David's criminally inclined twin brother who died under 'unclear circumstances' which Emma is pretty sure was code speak for drug overdose. His funeral was the first funeral Emma ever attended. She was five at the time, and she's almost certain she wasn't meant to hear it when David, practically sobbing and a little drunk, said to Mary Margaret, _"I hated that son of a bitch so much_ _,_ _but I miss him even more._ _"_  

She's not sure how she hasn't fully realized how much her parents are actually capable of understanding losing someone. They have both lost both their parents, but those losses occurred before Emma was born so she hasn't witnessed them dealing with them. David has lost his brother. Who knows who else there's been they've lost. Friends. Relatives. Acquaintances. Coworkers. It's no wonder they have been wise enough to not harass Emma with unnecessary questions.

"I guess I never thought about that," Emma says, feeling a little foolish.

"No, it's okay. Just know that if I could, I would take that pain from you in a heartbeat. It must be very hard losing your... partner."

Partner? In a way, yeah, but not in the sense her mother is thinking. It would feel wrong to let this slide after all this tentatively raw honesty between them. "You know, it wasn't like that. I mean, not in years. It was... complicated." Complicated and... yet so simple.

"Oh," Mary Margaret says looking more than a little confounded.

But that's when Henry is suddenly in the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, looking sleepy. "Can I have some coffee, too?" he asks, and he sounds mumbly in the way his dad always sounded mumbly in the morning.

Emma smiles. "Good morning to you, too. But sorry, no coffee. Ask me again in ten years."

"Ten? That doesn't make sense. You don't need to be twenty-one to have caffeine," Henry says.

"Well, rules are rules, kid. And mothers don't always have to make sense," Emma says.

She smiles at Mary Margaret when she says that. Mary Margaret smiles back.

For once, it's not a sad smile.

"You guys are weird," Henry says and proceeds to butter a piece of toast.

  

***

  

Emma tries to visit August around noon, but he's not at Granny's.

"He went to church," Ruby informs her. (Her outfit of the day consists of denim shorts and a black t-shirt that reveals her bellybutton.)

It's quite possibly the most surreal answer ever. "What?"

"Morning mass with his father, I think. They left quite early, and they haven't come back. Do you think they could have been killed?" Ruby's eyes widen.

Emma smiles at her. "Oh, I'm sure they are fine. Horror movies don't tell the whole truth about priests." Emma thinks of August's father, Marco, and his Catholic morals that never meshed very well with August's more... lax attitude to life and its indulgences. The fact that Marco's son wasn't quite as _bravo_ , _coraggioso_ or _disinteressato_ (not that Emma knows Italian – August just used to repeat the words quite often, a little mockingly, while whining, _"Who does he think I am?_ _Fucking_ _Pinocchio?"_ ) as Marco wished used to be a never-ending source of conflict in the Booth family. Emma guesses this is a part of August's writing process – rediscovering the source of all the pain and stuff. Working towards breaking the curse, whatever it then entails in his case.

Emma wonders if going to church with his father is the same thing for August as the thought of working for her father is for Emma. Maybe not quite. She's pretty sure she would be a better deputy than August would ever be a Catholic.

"Speaking of religious figures... Do you still like Jesus and Mary Chain?" Ruby asks suddenly, yanking Emma out of her musings. 

"What?"

"The band?"

"Yeah, I know they're a band... But how do you know I liked them in the first place?"

"You had their t-shirt," Ruby says.

"Did I?" It's not at all unlikely, though. However, the fact that Ruby seems to remember a detail like that from over a decade ago is a bit scary.

"You did. Do you know Peter and the Wolf?"

"What?"

"The band."

"That's a band?"

"Yeah, a great band. You should check them out."

"Oh. Maybe I will."

"Okay. Great. See you," Ruby says, flashing a wide smile.

"... bye," Emma says to her retreating back.

_Oookay._

She wonders if, possibly, her teenaged self had a fangirl she was totally unaware of.

  

***

  

Emma is sitting in her car, indulging in some greasy food she grabbed from Granny's diner on her way out (She feels ashamed, because she remembers Henry's rants about saturated fats, but what the kid doesn't know, can't hurt him, right?), when her phone rings.

She doesn't recognize the caller's number.

"Hello?" she answers, a bit warily. 

Without greetings or introductions, the caller says, "We need to talk." But yeah, no introductions needed, because that's a voice Emma recognizes right away. And it's more the fact that she's calling her at all than the lack of greeting that makes her go, _"W_ _hat the fuck_ _,"_ in her head.

"Where the hell did you get my number?" she asks Regina.

"That's none of your business," Regina says, and Emma wonders if that's her stock reply to any question.

"It's kinda my business, you know," Emma says, and she's not quite sure why she feels a small smile creeping onto her face. She should be upset by yet another invasion of her privacy. Must be all the surrealism getting to her. August going to church and fangirls and all.

"I have my ways of obtaining information I need."

"So I've noticed." Emma rolls her eyes despite knowing that the gesture goes unseen. "Why are you calling me?"

"As I said, we need to talk."

"Alright. Talk."

"Not over the phone."

"Okay?"

"Come by the house at seven sharp."

"Wait..." Emma wants to protest, because she has Henry all evening, and, even if she didn't, how does Regina think she has any right to boss her around after first telling her, in no uncertain terms, too, to stay out of her life?

It's no use, however, because the line is dead before she can get any of that out.

She's not about to call back, though. She can always just not go.

 

***

 

"Remember it's a school night," Emma says to Mary Margaret when she and David are getting ready to leave the house that evening.

"I could teach in my sleep," Mary Margaret says, rolling her eyes in a very familiar fashion.

"What?" Henry asks.

"What your grandmother means is that she is a very good teacher who could exercise her chosen vocation without any preparation," David says.

"Thank you, David, that's exactly what I meant," Mary Margaret says and, yup, the adoring look is back in both of their eyes.

"Okay. Get out," Emma says.

"Are you sure you're going to be fine?" Mary Margaret asks for the millionth time.

"Yeah. Positive," Emma says, ushering them out of the door.

And then it's just the two of them.

"So, what do you want to do for dinner?" Emma asks Henry.

"Are you absolutely sure there are no sushi places in Storybrooke?" Henry asks.

"Yeah. It's a fishing town so people generally know that fish should be cooked before it's consumed," Emma says.

"That's not what the Japanese think," Henry says.

"Good thing we are not in Japan then. Is pizza okay?"

"I guess. As long as the crust is wholewheat and there's not too much cheese," Henry says.

Not too much cheese? Emma sighs. The things one does for one's children.

 

***

  

"So. How is school?" Emma asks when their pizzas have arrived from one of the two places in Storybrooke that do deliveries. 

"Really good," Henry says, picking out olives (Emma's price for _not too much cheese_ ) from his slice of pizza.

"Have you made any friends there?" Emma asks, because it feels like a motherly question to ask.

Henry looks at her like she just asked him the silliest question in the world. "Duh. When do I ever make friends at school? Everyone my age is stupid."

"That's probably not true. You are your age, and you're not stupid," Emma says.

"Yeah, but even if I made friends, I wouldn't get to keep them. We always move," Henry says and stuffs his mouth full of mutilated pizza.

Emma feels an enormous amount of guilt. "You do realize we always had good reasons to move?"

"Yeah."

"Anyway, you should at least try to make friends," Emma says.

"You don't have any friends either," Henry says.

"I have August," Emma says.

"Maybe he could be my friend, too?" Henry says.

"Yeah... No. Having your mother's only friend as your only friend wouldn't win you any coolness points," Emma says.

"Coolness points? I want to be recognized for my intellect, not my coolness," Henry says.

"Being smart is cool, so, yeah, same difference, kid. Get your own friends."

"Okay," Henry grunts. "I'll try to make some friends if that makes you happy."

"No, it should make _you_ happy," Emma points out. 

"Whatever," Henry says.

 

***

 

It's fifteen to seven and Emma is having an inner fight with herself.

On one hand there's that damned curiosity, but on the other hand there's Henry. 

And Henry is a damn smart kid.

"Hey, Henry. There's something I have to do," Emma says. "Do you remember when we used to go to places and I told you to stay in the car and you did because you are smart?"

"Yeah. Are we going somewhere dangerous?"

"Maybe," Emma says. "And I'll need you to stay in the car. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, of course," Henry says.

Emma tries not to be alarmed by the unashamed excitement manifested in the way he grins.

 

***

 

"This is dangerous?" Henry asks when Emma parks the Bug on the side of Mifflin Street, a few houses from Regina's house. He eyes the pompous houses skeptically.

"Could be," Emma says. "Stay in the car. I won't be long. We'll swing by the store afterwards and get some dessert."

"Okay," Henry says, opening the comic book he has found on the backseat.

  

***

 

It's five past seven when Emma knocks on Regina's door. Close enough to seven sharp, she thinks.

Suddenly she hears something from behind her.

"So what are we doing here?" Henry asks and Emma jumps and almost yelps.

_Henry?_ What the hell?

Because why the hell is Henry here when he should be in the car reading a comic book? 

"Henry. What the hell are you doing here? I told you to wait in the car."

"Whose house is this?" Henry asks, ignoring Emma's question. He looks terribly innocent.

"Kid, you can't be here," Emma says, panic rising in her chest.

_Inherited idiocy – exhibit number one million: Making stupid plans that always fail._

The door opens.

"It's five past..." Regina starts to say, but that's when she notices Henry. Her annoyed expression turns into confusion.

And that's also when Henry notices her. His eyes widen.

"Whoa," Henry says. "Emma, why are we at the Mayor's house?" 

"Yes, would you care to explain, Miss Swan?" Regina asks. It's really unfair how fast she seems to be able to recover from surprises.

"I told him to wait in the car," Emma says defensively, because there's nothing else she can think to say.

"She did," Henry says. The words are directed at Regina. "But I don't like waiting in the car." He looks at Emma. "And that's not the point, because the point is, why are we here?"

"Err," Emma says. "I don't know?" She honestly doesn't, after all.

"Your mother is assisting me in a matter," Regina says to Henry. She's smiling the weird smile again. The one she smiled when she accused Henry of being a bad liar. Except, well, it's actually not a weird smile at all, it's just the fact that she's smiling that's weird.

"I am?" Emma asks. But then again, sure, it's as good an explanation as any. "Yes, I am," she says more firmly. 

"What matter?" Henry asks. "Wait, do grandpa and grandma know about this?"

"Nope, and I would really appreciate it if you didn't mention anything about this to them," Emma says.

"Cool," Henry says. "So it's a secret operation. I'm in."

"Oh, no, no, no, kid. You are not," Emma says.

"Why? Do you think the operation needs a name? How's Cobra?"

"No, there's no secret operation that you're a part of, and there's definitely no need for a code name," Emma says.

"Henry," Regina says. She says the name very softly, like it's a delicate word in a foreign language. "Do you like apples?"

_Apples?_ It's an extremely random question to ask. Emma looks at Regina who is staring at Henry. There's something in her eyes that looks a lot like... gentleness. Or affection or whatever.

"Yep," Henry says.

"There's a Honeycrisp tree in the back yard. Go around the house and pick yourself as many apples as you want. I will talk to your mother in the meantime," Regina says.

"Really?" Henry asks. Emma is pretty sure that the concept of picking fruit somewhere that's not an aisle in a grocery store is pretty alien to him. But apparently it's also something that he finds at least as exciting as covert operations.

"Yes," Regina says.

And somehow Emma can't seem to get over the fact that Regina is being _nice._ But hey, one more detail to add to her catalog of things she knows about Regina – there is an apple tree outside her office at Town Hall and there is one in the back yard of her house. It seems likely that she has a soft spot not just for sneaky eleven-year-olds but also for apple trees. Not that that piece of information makes the puzzle appear any more coherent.

"Okay. Cool!" Henry says.

As soon as Henry is out of earshot, Regina turns her attention to Emma. "What were you thinking?" she practically hisses.

"Well, my parents aren't home, and I couldn't leave him alone. And he usually stays in the car when I tell him to," Emma says. Not that she needs to explain her stupid actions to Regina. "But that's beside the point, and we don't have much time. Why am I here?"

Regina looks infuriated, but she says, in a low voice, "You were right."

"About what?" Emma asks. 

"About there being a listening device in the office."

"Oh. Really?" Even though it is something Emma thought was a vague possibility, the fact that she was right is still absurd. Because it _is_ a whole lot like something out of a spy movie.

"Yes, really. How did you know to suggest looking for those?"

"I guess I know more about Gold's dark side than most people," Emma says.

"It could have been someone else," Regina says. 

"Maybe. What do I know," Emma says. She really has no idea how many enemies (or something less dramatic) Regina might have. It's just the timing that makes her suspect Gold. Then the obvious question suddenly hits her, "Wait, why are you telling me any of this? Do you really need my help with something or... what?"

"I don't know," Regina says. For a moment she looks uncertain.

"What do you not know?" Emma asks.

"I'm trying to determine your reasons for helping me in the first place," Regina says.

"Does there have to be a reason?" Emma asks.

"There is always a reason." Regina looks at Emma in a way that makes her legs suddenly feel very weak. "Tell me, Miss Swan, how did you happen to be in that... place in Boston the night we... first met?"

"What do you mean?" Emma asks. She forces herself to look Regina in the eye even though it feels like her eyes are burning a hole right through her skull.

"It just feels suspect that you would approach me, and then turn up in Storybrooke not much later," Regina says. And how can anyone even be that intimidating without holding a deadly weapon?

"What are you saying?" Emma asks, a little amazed by her ability to still form words.

"I am saying that I don't know if you have a selfish interest in all this," Regina says.

"A selfish interest? Are you saying you think I might actually be somehow... working against you?" Emma almost laughs because, oh yeah, now they have really reached spy movie territory.

"Are you?" Regina asks.

"Like I would tell you if I was," Emma says and now she can't help smiling at the ridiculousness of the idea. "Come on. You can't be serious."

Regina isn't smiling. "Then why would you approach me? And don't try to claim that it was a coincidence, because you told me yourself that you had seen me there before."

"I don't know," Emma says. It's a very stupid answer, but it's still better than the things she hears in her head. Things like, _"I guess I was homesick_ _._ _"_ Or, even worse, _"I think something in me may have fallen for something in you right from the start."_

"Who are you?" Regina asks. There is something almost... desperate in her voice. 

"Oh, so now you are suddenly not so sure you know everything there is to know about me?"

Regina doesn't say anything. Her eyes are very, very dark.

Emma shakes her head a little in disbelief. "Trust me," she says. "I'm just a stranger you happened to meet. That's it. I helped you because it was the right thing to do. The kinda thing my parents taught me to do when I was a kid."

"I don't trust strangers," Regina says.

"Well, neither do I. But you kinda have no choice unless you want to spend sleepless nights wondering if I've hidden a camera in your bedroom."

Regina's eyes widen a little in abject horror.

Now Emma laughs out loud. "Sorry. That was a joke."

"What are you laughing at?" Henry asks.

And damn it if the kid doesn't know how to appear seemingly out of nowhere. He's smiling, and the pockets of his hoodie are packed full of apples.

"Nothing," Emma says.

"Where do we stand on Operation Cobra?" Henry asks.

"Well, what's code speak for the point where you and I go back to your grandparents' house?"

"That's not how spy language works," Henry says.

"Yeah, well, Cobra's dead. Sorry, kid. Let's go," Emma says. But her parents tried to raise her into a proper human being and even if they sort of failed, she guesses she has to try to do the same, so she adds, "You should thank the Mayor for the apples."

"Thank you," Henry says, smiling at Regina.

"You are very welcome, Henry," Regina says. 

Emma wonders how it's even possible for a person to look that different with a smile on her face.

  

***

 

"Her house is big," Henry says when they are back in the car. 

"Yep," Emma says, keeping her eyes on the street.

"These apples taste good. Want one?"

"Nope."

"Are you mad?" Henry asks in an uncertain voice.

"What do you think?"

"I'm sorry."

And just like that Emma's anger melts. "No, it's fine, Henry. Just... Sometimes it's better to listen to what people tell you to do."

"I won't say anything to grandma and grandpa."

Emma sighs. "I can't ask you to keep my secrets."

"Yes, you can. I already do." Henry sounds way older than he should.

"I know," Emma says. It's fucked up but true.

"Do you think she could be my friend?" Henry asks suddenly.

"Who? The Mayor?"

"Yeah. I kinda like her."

_Oh boy_. What's the gentle way of telling your son that he has the worst taste in people?


	7. Chapter 7

**Interlude III**

 

 

_Who could you be in a place like this?_  

(The Crash – _What If I Meet You_ )

 

 

**VII**

 

 

It's Tuesday and Emma is bored.

It's the first time she has been properly bored in a long time. Not particularly sad or plagued with curiosity or bad memories. Those feelings are still there, but they are more like a dull ache instead of a shooting pain. The heavy cloud of boredom stifles any willingness to dwell on anything.

It's not entirely uncomfortable, because she supposes that, in a way, it is a positive change, too. It's just that... there is absolutely nothing to do.

Briefly, she considers continuing her Regina Mills investigation, but maybe it's something about the way Henry's eyes lit up at the prospect of picking apples the evening before that makes her not want to pursue that. Maybe it's that simple. Maybe she is just willing to give anyone Henry likes the benefit of the doubt. At least once. Or maybe it's just that the less she thinks about Regina, the better. Not thinking about her means there are fewer chances of finding herself doing something irrational. Fewer chances of Henry ending up in the middle of something extremely complicated once again.

Whatever, it's not like she's obsessed with the woman or anything. She can totally just ignore her whole existence if it means protecting Henry.

Because more than anything Emma is angry at herself for having involved Henry in any of that in the first place. Her parents came home so late (both giggling in a very disturbing manner) that they didn't have a chance to inquire about Emma and Henry's evening, and the topic didn't come up at breakfast either for which Emma is endlessly grateful, because as much as she knows Henry can be trusted with keeping secrets, he really, _really_ can't be trusted when it comes to convenient lies and partial truths.

And the thing is that parents are really not supposed to wish their children could be trusted with something like that. That's precisely the reason she has to make sure there will be no need for Henry to think that he should lie in order to protect his mother, and the only way she can accomplish that is by not doing anything shady herself.

No more lies. No more getting involved in anyone else's personal drama. No more spy missions named after different species of snakes.

And if that means there is absolutely nothing to do, then so be it. She can take a little boredom.

...

Except that she really can't.

Because it's a fine line between boredom and restlessness and she has to get out of the house. If for no other reason but the way the deer in one of her mother's paintings keep staring at her with creepy, unblinking eyes.

 

***

 

"So are you going to Neverland?" Ruby asks when she hands Emma her coffee.

Neverland. Right. It's almost that time of the year again.

"I think I'm too old for Neverland," she says. 

"But it's the biggest party of the year. And it's a tradition. Old people like traditions, don't they?" Ruby says.

"Gee, thanks. Besides, it's the _only_ party of the year," Emma says. 

"That's true. And I'm sorry, I don't really think you're old," Ruby says and smiles. "Did you ever go? To Neverland?"

"Yeah, once," Emma says.

The name 'Neverland' used to have an almost magical effect on anyone younger than twenty-five. Emma's actually almost certain Killian Jones of all people came up with the name (his band used to be the headliner there every year, after all). It may have been his only stroke of genius ever. It used to be a beach party of what felt like epic proportions, at least to someone who wasn't old enough to actually go. The whole thing had a very end-of-the-world feel to it, because more than once it coincided with some of the most dramatic fall storms ever, but people kept dancing and drinking and doing things that everybody whispered about for the rest of the year. It's a wonder, really, that nobody ever actually drowned in the ocean or anything. But the one time Emma actually managed to sneak out of the apartment to go to Neverland...

"How was it?" Ruby asks.

"I have no idea. I fell asleep on the beach after my second drink. August had to practically carry me home." Emma shakes her head.

_Good times_.

She guesses some things are better in theory than in practice. Beach parties called Neverland being one of them.

  

***

 

Emma's sitting in her car, sipping the coffee and staring at the clock tower.

8:15. Always. She wonders why nobody's ever bothered to fix the clock. Maybe it's a metaphor of some sort, someone's stupid joke. Time feels different in Storybrooke. Less hectic. And like the clock, some people always get stuck in small towns. They just never... leave.

Some people even come back.

God, Emma wonders how long it will take before she will feel like she's stuck, too. Like she can't leave anymore. Like the world on the other side of town line is too scary, too big, too busy.

It's a frightening thought that makes her feel more than a little claustrophobic.

Right now, though, if she's completely honest with herself, she knows she's not actually interested in the broken clock. She's interested in what's beneath it.

The library.

Without thinking about it too much, she gets out of the car, and if her feet end up taking her towards the library, it may not exactly be because she's that into books, but come on, hot, Australian librarian-slash-stripper? Yeah, that sounds like someone she has to see with her own eyes in order to believe. And it's not exactly poking a beehive, because surely she's allowed to visit the library without Gold getting suspicious, is she not?

She walks in, totally casually, and heads towards the shelf marked 'New Acquisitions'. That's what somebody who visits the library regularly would do, right?

And that's when Emma sees someone.

"Hello," the redhead shelving books says to her, and from that single word Emma knows that this must be her, because yup, definitely Australian.

She is smiling and she _is_ hot.

"Hey," Emma says.

"I haven't seen you here before." The accent is really... distinctive.

"That's just because I haven't been in town very long," Emma says.

"Oh? I'm quite new in town, too. I mean, relatively speaking." It's such a friendly smile that Emma is completely nonplussed as to how on earth Gold has ended up dating someone who smiles like that. Or, rather, how someone who smiles like that has ended up dating Gold of all people. 

"Oh, right, I'm actually not _new_ new. I grew up here, but I haven't visited Storybrooke in years," Emma says.

"Well, I grew up in Australia so... " She shrugs. "I'm Belle, by the way," Belle says.

"Nice to meet you, Belle," Emma says. She's not sure why she doesn't introduce herself, but she guesses it's quite within the realms of possibility that Gold has, at some point, mentioned her name to Belle and she's not sure if her being in the library would seem suspect then or not. Better safe than sorry, she supposes (even if that sounds a lot like her mother's voice in her head again).

"So what brings you here?" Belle asks.

"The library? Just... seeing if it's still the same as it was twelve years ago."

"Well, I think those computers are from around that time, so... I don't think much has changed." Belle points towards the corner with four rusty computers.

"Yeah, those _do_ look familiar," Emma says.

"You spent a lot of time in the library?"

"Well, I did kiss a few people in the poetry section," Emma says truthfully.

Belle laughs. "So you weren't that into books?"

"No. I take it you are?"

"Among other things, yes," Belle says and there's something wicked about her grin. 

Other things. Yeah. Like stripping. And older businessmen. "So... Where are you from? In Australia, I mean?" Emma asks.

"I grew up near Melbourne. In the suburbs. I've been in the States for the past five years. Actually, my father's American so... dual citizenship and all that. I came here for my master's degree." Belle gestures a lot with her hands when she talks. And she talks a lot, too. Which is good, because it makes asking her questions seem more normal.

"Right. And how did you end up in Storybrooke of all places?" Emma asks.

"Love," Belle says and she smiles warmly.

"Love?" Emma asks.

"Yes. _Love._ " Belle almost giggles.

"Must be... true love. I mean, I don't see how anyone would voluntarily move here otherwise."

"True love? As in... in the Disney sense of the word? Yes, actually I think it is. He's the best thing that ever happened to me." 

_What a shitty life that must have been_. Emma doesn't say that, though. She says, "Well, good luck with that."

Her words must sound slightly sarcastic, because Belle asks, "What? You don't believe in love?"

Okay. It's weird that someone she has just met would ask her something like that. But Belle's expression is very open and she's Gold's girlfriend who is apparently truly in love with him and... How exactly is Emma supposed to resist the temptation to find out more? "I believe in love all right. Just..."

"Just not 'true love'?" The air quotes are sarcastic but not in a mean way.

"Yeah, I guess not," Emma says.

"Maybe you just haven't experienced it yet. It's... This may sound corny, but it's like coming home."

"Home?" Emma asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah. You know how they say that home is where the heart is? It's a terrible cliché, but it's true."

"I guess I was always more inclined to agree with Michael Scott from The Office, you know? Home is where the hardest."

Belle laughs. "Well, just because it may be... hard sometimes doesn't negate the fact that your heart is there."

"Right," Emma says. She's pretty sure arguing about words with Gold's girlfriend is not going to get her anywhere.

Belle laughs again. It's a bubbly, happy sound. "You don't believe me? I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

She _does_ look like someone who is completely, head over heels in love with someone. It doesn't make sense that the person she's in love with is Gold. It doesn't make _any_ sense.

God, she could technically someday be Henry's step-grandmother.

And she's a stripper.

Emma's head is spinning. "Right," she says again.

"So tell me about those people you kissed in the poetry section," Belle says. At Emma's shrugging she says, "Hey, come on, we don't get many customers this early in the day. Entertain me, please."

"Quite honestly I'd rather just forget all about them," Emma says, and Belle laughs again.

She is nice.

It doesn't make any sense.

What does make sense, considering her luck lately, is the voice calling Belle's name from the direction of the door.

Crap.

"Belle?" Gold says again.

Then his eyes meet Emma's. They only narrow a little. "Emma," he says.

"Mr. Gold," Emma says, sighing.

"Wait, you two know each other?" Belle says, disbelief written all over her face.

"We are old friends," Gold says. He looks warmer than usual. His smile could easily pass for a genuine one.

"Yeah, I kinda had a son with his son," Emma says, because Belle is nice and deserves more than half-truths. Besides, by the look of things, she's going to find out eventually anyway.

"Really? I didn't realize you're _Emma_... He has been talking about you. You see, he's the one I was telling you about. The best thing that ever happened to me," Belle says, looking at Gold with an affectionate smile. 

"Wow, I... I had no idea," Emma says.

"Yes, I am as surprised as you are that someone as lovely as Belle here would take an interest in someone like me," Gold says.

"That's not what I –" Emma starts.

She is interrupted by a wave of Gold's hand, though. "Don't worry, dearie. I'm not offended. And now that you're here, could I maybe have a word with you outside?"

"I... guess so," Emma says. She'd really rather not, but what choice does she have? She gives Belle a small smile. Belle smiles back brightly.

Emma follows Gold out to the street. Once they are a safe distance away from the library, he asks her in a dark, low voice, "What were you doing there with her?"

"What do you mean?" Emma asks as innocently as possible. "It's a public library. Anyone can go there anytime. And she happens to work there."

"You knew she was someone... important to me, didn't you?" Gold says.

Yeah, poking a beehive and thinking Gold wouldn't know? Not the smartest decision, maybe. "Oh, I'm not up-to-date with all the town gossip. How could I possibly have known that?"

"Fine, if you insist on lying, I suppose it's no use arguing." Gold's teeth are white, predator-like. He does actually look a little evil for a second. "Have you, by any chance, given any thought to the... business proposition I made you the other day?"

Business proposition? Really? "Yeah, I'm afraid it's not something I can do."

"Conflicting loyalties?" Gold's lips curl up in one corner. It's a wry smile.

"Yeah, no. No loyalties. I just have nothing to offer."

"See, I don't think that's true at all. And I'm not sure you realize what's best for you."

"What do you mean?" Emma asks.

"You liked Belle, right?" The change of topic is very abrupt.

"Yes, she seemed very... likable," Emma says. She's not even lying. She's surprised, but she's not lying.

"Well, if you helped me, you would be helping her as well," Gold says.

"Helping her with _what_?" Emma asks.

"You would be helping her help me build a better future."

It's awfully vague. "That's... awfully vague. A better future for whom?"

"Well, ideally, for all of us." Gold's eyes narrow. "Surely you don't want a less than wonderful future for your son, do you?" 

Something about the words sounds a lot like a threat. So much so in fact that Emma feels horribly, horribly cold. "Is that a threat?"

Gold looks at her sharply. "Why would I threaten your son? My grandson?"

"I don't know," Emma has to admit, because she really has no idea, because nothing makes any sense.

Nothing. Makes. Any. Fucking. Sense.

Gold stares at her for a few seconds and then he shakes his head and leans on his cane with both hands. "Very well. If you change your mind, you know where to find me." He gives her a little bow and a tight-lipped smile.

"Sure," Emma says. _As if_.

She's almost sure Gold is not going to say anything else, but then he opens his mouth and closes it, like he's uncertain as to whether he should say whatever he's about to say or not.

It's probably meant to be a bait, but... "What?" Emma asks.

"Just remember that everything comes with a price. That's especially true of our choices," Gold says.

And that, if anything, is definitely something that Emma recognizes as a threat. She's left gaping after Gold who makes his way back towards the library. 

Back to his perfectly nice, hot, Australian librarian-slash-stripper girlfriend.

  

***

  

What she's feeling is mostly just panic. She clutches the steering wheel of the Bug with both hands, knuckles all white, and she tries to take deep breaths.

Air, however, feels too heavy in her lungs.

Okay, at least she's not bored anymore, but she'd rather be bored than panicked as hell.

Choices? Loyalties? What the fuck is going on? Gold made it sound like there's practically a fucking civil war of some kind coming soon. Which is ridiculous, because this is Storybrooke where nothing ever happens. This is Storybrooke where a fucking beach party named after the place Peter Pan lives in is the talk of the town for months afterwards.

How in hell did she let herself get in the middle of something this fucked up? With actual, dangerous enemies (by Storybrooke's standards)? With annoyingly hot mayors with trust issues and bugs in their offices and... _This is not a James Bond movie._

Yeah, right, except this kinda is a fucking James Bond movie. A very bad one.

This... whole thing, this visit? The worst idea ever. And now... It's almost been too long. She's almost been here too long already.

Soon she will be stuck like the clock and Henry... Oh god, Henry.

8:15. Forever and ever.

It's not right. It's not right that Henry has ended up in the middle of anything that involves Gold.

It's just not right.

Nothing makes any fucking sense, and the only thing Emma knows is that she has to get Henry out of this place as soon as possible. There is no other choice. This is it – the moment when she has to decide what's best for Henry and, by extension, for her.

She has allowed herself to linger here for much longer than is reasonable, all because of some illusion of families and happily ever afters in a small town and August's romanticized notions of rediscovering one's roots (because what do roots even matter when they have been haphazardly chopped off and have started to rot as a result) and she has let Henry think that this may be something semi-permanent when in reality she has known this whole time that it can't be. It just... can't be. It's too much. It's too fucking much.

This whole time she has only stayed in Storybrooke for Henry. Not for herself, for Henry.

But come on, the option of staying is no longer realistic.

She has to leave. Not just for Henry, but for herself, too.

Surely her parents will understand when she calls them afterwards to explain?

  

***

 

She's waiting for Henry at the school gate. He's kicking stones as he walks and he's not even looking at the other children walking and running in the same direction. Thankfully, his grandmother is nowhere to be seen.

"Emma!" he says, looking surprised though not completely displeased. "What are you doing here?"

"Get in the car, kid. I'm taking you somewhere," Emma says.

"Where? I promised to wait for grandma. She said she'd only be like fifteen minutes," Henry says.

"Get in the car and I'll explain. Don't worry about your grandmother. She knows I'm here." It hurts to lie to Henry, but it's for the best.

"Okay," Henry says, looking confused, but, thank god, he gets in the car.

Emma is driving faster than the speed limit, but she doesn't even care. Her father is sure as hell not going to arrest her for taking Henry to safety. "Tell me about your day," she says, doing everything to make her voice sound light and cheerful.

"Okay," Henry says again, but this time his eyes light up (the way they lit up the evening before – apples and all, but hey, fuck apples, fuck everything, fuck this town) and he says, "We watched this documentary about dolphins and... Did you know dolphins call each other by names? Like, they have actual names for each other? Grandma told us that."

Emma knows she doesn't have to say anything. In fact, there's not going to be any room for her to say anything. She's happy to listen to Henry talk about dolphins for as long as he's willing to. Which, hopefully, is pretty fucking long.

 

***

  

Henry talks about dolphins for almost ten minutes. Then he's suddenly serious when he looks around and there's nothing but forest on both sides of the road. "Wait, Emma. Where are we going?"

"Don't worry," Emma says.

"What? You never tell me not to worry unless there's something to be worried about," Henry says. Now he looks alarmed.

"It's nothing. I'm sorry. We just... We have to get out of here," Emma says.

"What? Out of where? What are you talking about?"

"We have to get out of Storybrooke," Emma says.

Henry is in full panic mode now. "What? No! Why?"

"Trust me. It's... It's better if we go. Now."

"What are you talking about? Please, Emma, stop the car!"

"I'm sorry, I... I can't," Emma says and she feels tears flood her eyes and her vision is getting blurry and...

"Please! Stop the car. You have to! Please!" And now Henry's crying, too and...

And. 

She really, _really_ can't take his tears anymore.

So she pulls over on the side of the road. Maybe if she explains all of this to Henry...

"What's going on?" Henry asks, his voice still _I don't know how to spell 'prejudice'_ levels of hysterical.

And she would explain, she really would, it's just that... she has no words. She lets her head rest on the steering wheel and she closes her eyes.

"Did something happen today?" Henry asks.

"No, kid, nothing happened." Which is true. Kinda. Nothing did actually happen. Words were exchanged, but nothing more happened. If going into full freak out mode doesn't count as something happening.

"Then why do you want to leave _now_?" Henry asks.

"I... I can't talk to you about that."

"Wait, is this about Operation Cobra?"

That makes Emma look up in disbelief. "What?"

"Is it?" Henry asks more insistently. "If it's something you can't talk about?"

"Henry, there is no Operation Cobra. Never was. Never will be," Emma says.

Henry, however, seemingly ignores Emma's words and asks, "Is the Mayor in trouble?"

"What?" 

"Is she?"

"Henry, I... I don't know."

"She is, isn't she?" Henry's eyes widen. "You have to help her."

_What?_

"What? No, I... I don't think I can," Emma says.

"Please, Emma. We can't let anything bad happen to anyone."

"Henry, it's really not... It's not our responsibility."

"Why not?"

"That's not how the world works."

"Why not?" Henry asks again.

_Because there are no heroes in real life? Because this isn't a fucking James Bond movie? Because town politics are silly and convoluted, and the worst that's probably going to happen is Regina losing her job? Which, hello, she can probably afford to do?_

When she doesn't say anything, Henry, one more time, says, "Please."

It's a quiet plea, full of determination and hope and thinly-veiled optimism.

Emma closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath and tries to be rational.

Because this really isn't a James Bond movie. Nobody's going to shoot anyone with a cyanide-tipped bullet, there's no threat of a nuclear explosion, and nobody's going to kidnap Henry, take him to another planet, and demand a ransom (which, actually, would have been much more likely in any of the other places they've lived in – well, maybe not the another planet part). 

This is Storybrooke. Gold is not a Bond villain. He's a small town businessman with slightly skewed morals. The worst he can do is make empty threats and manipulate people. 

She sighs. "Sorry, kid. I overreacted." 

"It's okay. Harry did that, too, sometimes, but he was still a hero in the end," Henry says.

"Harry?"

"Styles. No, Harry _Potter._ " There's a tiny smile on his lips.

The smile gives Emma hope when they sit in silence.

"My dad died," Henry says eventually.

"I know," Emma says quietly.

"I don't want to lose you, and I don't want to lose grandpa and grandma either," Henry says, sounding once again older than he should.

And if Emma's completely honest... "I don't think I want to lose them again either," she whispers.

The realization and the clarity that accompanies it almost make her momentary bout of insanity worth it.

Almost.

"Let's get you back. I'm gonna call your grandma. She's probably wondering where you are."

  

***

  

"It's probably best if we don't mention any details of what happened today to my parents," Emma says when they are still sitting in the car that's parked in front of her parents' house. 

"I agree," Henry says, nodding.

"Hey, can you wait for you grandmother here? She'll be home soon. There's a spare key under that garden gnome," Emma says.

"Are you going somewhere?" Henry asks.

"Yeah, there's something I have to do."

"Does it have something to do with Operation Cobra?" Henry asks, mischief mixed with curiosity dancing in his eyes.

"There is no Operation Cobra," Emma says.

"I know," Henry says, but he winks before adding, "I knew you'd make the right choice."

"Shut up, kid," Emma says, but she ruffles his hair.

He smiles at her when he walks backwards towards the house.

 

***

  

She's not even sure why she's doing this. For Henry, certainly, and for her father, too, but, strangely, it also feels like she's doing this for herself.

She thinks of Belle and Gold and the fact that sometimes it's hard, but yeah, the heart is still there. She's not sure why she thinks of that, because it's not really applicable here. Besides, it's ridiculous.

Like, seriously.

At first, she thinks the sheriff's station is completely deserted, but then she spots David outside. He is polishing the cruiser, a look of determination on his face.

"Hey," she says when she reaches him. "I didn't know it was the Sheriff's job to keep the car nice and shiny."

"Yeah, well, there's not much else going on," David says. He smiles.

"Did you solve the one actual crime that you are, you know, expected to solve?" Emma asks.

He becomes more serious. The lines on his forehead are suddenly very clearly visible. "The break-in? Not yet. It's a tricky case."

"Want any help with that?"

David stares at her and, slowly, a smile spreads across his face again. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I can't believe I am, but yes, I think I am saying what you think I'm saying."

His smile reaches idiotic levels of brightness. "All right. That's great. Come on. There's something you need."

  

***

 

The badge is shiny despite the few scratches. Emma is pretty sure she's imagining things but it's almost as if it still smells of Killian Jones – cheap rum and cigarette smoke.

It's definitely real and not a joke, but she just has to ask, "I still don't get it. Why would you think hiring me would be an even remotely good idea?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" David looks almost confused. 

"Well, the obvious reason."

"You didn't know me when I was seventeen," David says as if it's some kind of an explanation.

It's not.

"Yeah, but you _did_ know me when _I_ was seventeen," Emma says.

"That's what I meant. You have no idea the kind of trouble James and I got into at that age."

She really does have no idea. It's almost ridiculous how little she knows about her parents' teenage years. "Really?"

"Yeah. It was a... wild time. But you know what? I grew up. I changed." He doesn't say, _"James never did_. _"_ He doesn't have to.

Emma isn't sure how she should formulate the question so she ends up with an awkward, "How did... How?"

"Our mother always believed in us. Always. That was the biggest reason." David's smile is very warm. "And that's how I knew that I could always believe in you." 

Emma's heart almost explodes from all the feelings it's suddenly forced to contain. Because it's only been a couple of hours or so since her epic freak out. "Always?" Her voice trembles a little.

David's voice, however, is very steady when he says, "Yes. Always."

She doesn't want to ask, _"Did mom?"_ She doesn't want to ask, because she doesn't really want to know if something like that was one of the _issues_ between her parents. She also doesn't want to ask, _"But what if I had happened to be more like James and less like you?"_ Because maybe she could have been more like James, were it not for Henry, and it's a scary hypothetical.

So she simply smiles at her father and says the one thing that seems like the most important thing to say, "Thanks."

They stare at each other, both smiling awkwardly, and then David laughs and says, "Okay, Deputy. Go fetch us something to eat."

Emma looks at him sternly. "Is that the real reason you hired me? So that I can fetch you meals and do your paperwork for you?"

"No, but I don't think well on an empty stomach. I'm paying, though." He hands her a wrinkled twenty.

Emma shakes her head. But she doesn't think well on an empty stomach either so...

Whatever. 

At least she has a job. And maybe it's a temporary one, but it's a job that allows her to dig deeper than she would otherwise be allowed to do.

In your face, boredom and restlessness and epic freak outs.

In your face, Gold.

  

***

  

What she's doing later in the early evening is very in-your-face, too, but it's something she wants to savor and enjoy. For various reasons.

She leans against the black Mercedes, arms crossed boldly across her chest, and when Regina appears from behind the white building and sees her, eyes widening because of who knows what emotion, she says, "Good evening, Madam Mayor."

"What are you doing here?" Regina asks. Because, apparently, it's her standard reaction to Emma's presence inside the Town Hall premises. Or anywhere at all, actually.

"I heard there was some criminal activity here the other day. A break-in," Emma says. 

Regina's eyes narrow.

Emma points at the badge she has fastened on her belt. "I'm here to investigate," she says. (And she does realize that the words coming out of her mouth _do_ sound a lot like the opening lines of some cop porn film. But whatever.)

"Is that so?" Regina asks.

"Yeah. The Sheriff sent me." Which is only technically true, because the Sheriff didn't do much else than chuckle and say, _"Okay, if you insist. Have fun."_

But that doesn't really matter, because she's here because Henry wanted her to help Regina. There's no other reason.

None at all.

Nope.

And when Regina rolls her eyes and says, "Well, the Sheriff has always been an idiot," Emma's heart doesn't do anything strange at all.


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

**VIII**

 

The silence is eerie, but it is something they have apparently wordlessly agreed on since they can't be sure if the office is a safe space for anything but stupid small talk. Which, apparently, is also something they have both agreed would be a huge waste of time.

It's a little unnerving, though, being in the same room with Regina who is simply leaning against her desk, hands on her hips, looking extremely unhappy about the turn of events.

(Emma wonders if Regina ever looks happy. And if she does, what does that look like.

But then again, what is happiness? Emma sure as hell doesn't know. Happiness, she feels, is like unicorns or dragons in Henry's favorite storybooks – cool concepts on paper, sure, but mostly imaginary.)

Unicorns and dragons. She's in someone's office looking for bugs. 

Life makes even less sense than her wandering thoughts, and it's been an awfully long day. It's getting really dark outside.

Regina is the one to break the silence, no doubt after carefully weighing her words as to whether they can pass for idle chatter between almost-strangers, should someone overhear them talking. "You do realize you are in no way qualified for an actual deputy job," she says.

"Mmmh," Emma manages to say, her reply mumbled because of the Maglite she's holding between her teeth as she's investigating the lamp on the ceiling. (She's actually pretty sure Regina is only talking to her because she knows Emma can't talk back.)

"The Sheriff could get in trouble for his reckless hiring practices."

Emma shoots Regina a look that says, _"Come on."_

"And not only are you not qualified, I am almost certain you wouldn't pass the required background check," Regina says.

"Mmh-hh," Emma says, trying to tune the words out, focusing on the lamp.

When there's nothing suspicions about the lamp, though, she hops down from the chair she's been standing on.

"So do you like horses?" Emma asks, rubbing her neck that's sore after she's spent so much time gawking upwards.

It's been over two hours and she hasn't found anything. And there's a massive white horse statue on the mantel above the fireplace (who the fuck even has a fireplace in their office?) and it's really starting to bother her. Everything else, the apples, the birch trees, the glass surfaces and mirrors, she can take, but the horse doesn't make sense.

"That's..."

"None of my business?" Emma asks.

"Indeed."

"Okay," Emma says, throwing up her hands. So much for small talk.

"Are you quite done with this so-called investigation?" Regina asks in a _no nonsense_ tone.

"I guess. For now."

"Good. So perhaps you can stop wasting my time, because I would like to go home at some point."

_"To what, exactly?"_ Emma wants to ask, but it's yet another question Emma knows she will probably never ask. She is, however, suddenly envisioning Regina alone in her huge, museum-like house. And then she's suddenly imagining her _with_ someone and it's even more disturbing. Why is it so disturbing? Oh god, Storybrooke is slowly but surely making her descend into insanity.

She's also slowly but surely losing all hope of ever really learning anything real about the person staring at her with unreadable eyes. The dress, the heels, the eyes, the impeccable hair, the authoritative pose. It's so hard to see her as anything else but an extremely confident mayor.

She's so good at that role.

So fucking good.

It's more frustrating than it probably should be (not to mention all kinds of hot), so Emma sighs and says, "Okay."

  

***

 

It's chilly outside. Chilly and dark. It's way too chilly for a leather jacket. The darkness, however, feels safer than the brightly lit, monochrome office.

Regina is probably thinking along the same lines because as soon as they reach the parking lot, she asks, "Why are you really here?"

Emma contemplates a non-answer such as, _"It's the decent thing to do,"_ but she is too tired and too cold for anything but the truth so she sighs and says, "Henry wanted me to help you."

That seems to catch Regina somewhat off-guard. "Henry?" she asks, sounding incredulous.

"Yeah," Emma says. "Apparently he likes you. His words, not mine."

"He said that?" If possible, Regina sounds even more incredulous now.

"Yeah. Sometimes I swear the kid has the worst taste in people." Emma can't help the nervous chuckle that sounds a lot like her father's.

Regina doesn't laugh. The mask is back on her face and if anything, she looks slightly hurt.

It's enough to make Emma say, "I'm sorry. It's just... You are different with him."

"What do you mean?"

"Less mean. Easier to like." It's almost like a confession of some kind that just slips out. But what the hell. "I'm starting to suspect you may actually like kids."

Regina, for once, doesn't say anything snarky. She even looks mildly amused as she quirks an eyebrow.

The surprising and semi-friendly gesture gives Emma a dose of courage that makes her ask, "So how come you don't have kids?"

She instantly regrets the question, because it's such a personal thing to ask, and she's so sure that she's not going to get an answer that her heart almost somersaults when Regina, staring at the rose bushes lining the yard, says in an extremely quiet voice, "Not everyone can have that."

Her quiet somberness feels like an icicle right through Emma's heart. She's such an idiot for even asking and she doesn't know what to say and she definitely doesn't want to ask any further questions. Because that's truly something that's none of her business. And suddenly she finds herself thinking of Henry and how she almost...

She's so lost in thought that she almost doesn't notice when Regina turns to walk away.

"Wait," Emma says, grabbing her arm in sudden panic.

Regina glances at her, eyes wide, then down at the hand on her arm like it's something either extremely disgusting or alarmingly dangerous.

Emma releases her grip instantly and says, almost breathlessly, "Please, don't take any of this out on my father. Because you know what? Even if you made him fire me, I would still continue helping you."

"Because Henry asked you to?"

"Yes. And you know what I think is interesting, too? How you didn't tell my father about the bug you found," Emma says in a low voice.

"It didn't seem like something he needed to know," Regina says.

"And yet he's the one who's supposed to find out who broke into your office."

"What's your point?"

"My point? Well, you said you don't trust me, but it would still seem that you already trust me more than you trust my father."

"I don't trust you."

"Right."

"I don't know you, so I'd be a fool to trust you."

It's true of course, and normally Emma would echo the sentiment like she did the previous time Regina told her that, but this time something makes her say, "You can, you know? You can trust me."

Regina doesn't look at all convinced. "Good night, Miss Swan," is all she says.

"Wait," Emma says at her retreating back again.

Regina spins around and asks, now clearly irritated, "What?"

"Can't we finish the conversation we kind of started? I mean, not here, not now, but... somewhere, sometime."

"What more is there to talk about?"

"Stuff."

"Oh, of course, _stuff_ ," Regina says mockingly.

"Oh, come on, you know what I mean. Do you know the beach with the old play castle? Meet me there tomorrow night." It's the first place Emma can think of, but it feels like a good choice of location because it's probably at least semi-desolate around this time of year.

"Thank you for reminding me of the fact that that castle should be torn down as soon as possible. Or burned to ground," Regina says, not looking at Emma.

For a moment Emma wonders what on earth Regina could have against the castle, but that's not important now. "Is that a yes? You'll be there?"

"I most certainly didn't say that."

"Okay. But you'll find me there anyway. If you want to, I mean. How's nine thirty-ish?"

"Good night, Miss Swan," Regina says again.

Emma doesn't make any further attempts at stopping her from walking towards her car. Hell, she's too busy being confused by her own actions once again. When has she ever wanted to talk to anyone? But then again, if she wants to honor Henry's wishes or even if she just wants to understand even a little of what's going on, she needs some real answers. Because the alternative is hitting her head against a brick wall in every direction she then chooses to go, with Regina and Gold and everyone else involved, and she's getting tired of that. And really, the only wall she's really interested in tearing down is Regina's.

For fuck's sake, she's going to get through that wall even if it requires a metaphorical battering ram.

  

***

  

It's been an exhausting day so Emma mostly ignores whatever it is her mother is trying to say. What she's saying involves a lot of hand gestures and using words like _"dangerous"_ and phrases like _"what is he thinking"_ but finally her mother sighs and says, "At least I hope this means you are not leaving Storybrooke any time soon?"

"I guess," Emma says, staring at the plate of chicken and vegetables rotating in the microwave.

"Well, in that case your father might actually be a genius. I mean, it's not that I think he's normally stupid, per se, but..."

"I know what you mean, mom," Emma says. "Is Henry asleep?"

"Yes."

"Did he seem okay?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't he have?"

Emma feels relieved. Oh god, she's so relieved. "No reason. Did he do his homework and everything?"

"Of course. You know, I do know a thing or two about children."

"Yeah, professionally maybe, but your own brat didn't turn into such a fine specimen," Emma says.

"Oh, she did," Mary Margaret says softly. "Didn't you hear? She chose a career in law enforcement. Just like her father."

Emma rolls her eyes. "I'm sure that's only temporary. Where's dad, by the way?"

"He got a call about a missing dog," Mary Margaret says.

"Oh. Well, he's good at finding animals."

"Yes, he is, isn't he? Hey, I never really thought about it, but he's actually good at finding all kinds of things. People, too, you know?" Mary Margaret says, sounding astonished.

Emma tries to hide a smile. "And all this time you thought you were married to an idiot."

"No, that's not what I... I most certainly have never thought that!"

But when her mother realizes that Emma is teasing her, her indignant expression turns into a smile, too, and before either of them really know it, they are both laughing.

It's not exactly like in the old times, before all this distance and millions and millions of layers of misunderstanding and disconnect, but it's close enough to feel oddly comforting.

  

***

  

As Emma enters the guestroom, tiptoeing so as to be as quiet as possible, she discovers that Henry is, in fact, not asleep. Instead, he's very much awake and grinning widely.

"Hey, you're supposed to be sleeping," Emma says. "It's past ten."

"I know. But I just wanted to say... It was amazing what you did." The grin gets even wider.

"What do you mean?" Emma asks because while she can think of numerous things she has done lately, none of them are what she would characterize as 'amazing'. In fact, most of them would be better described as 'insanely fucking stupid'. Not that she would want Henry to use that exact phrasing.

"Infiltrating the sheriff's department? Ingenious. And amazing."

"Henry? You do realize you're talking about your grandfather's department."

"Yeah. But he's not involved in Operation Cobra, is he?" Henry's brows furrow.

"No, he's --" but then she realizes she's almost walked into a trap. "There is still no Operation Cobra, okay?" she says.

Henry sighs happily as his head hits the pillow. "Of course not," he says, closing his eyes.

Emma stares at him and can't resist kneeling beside his bed and smoothing down the brown hair once again sticking up in all directions. She lets her hand linger on his temple as she whispers, " _You_ are kind of amazing, you know?"

He smiles, but doesn't open his eyes, and through his suddenly very apparent drowsiness, he barely manages to mutter, "Yeah, I know."

Emma doesn't know how long she stays up just watching him sleep. It's something she hasn't done in a while, because he's getting older and doesn't need anyone to fight the monsters lurking under his bed at night anymore, but tonight she feels extra grateful for him. For everything.

Because not everyone can have that, for whatever reason, and god, she's happy she kept him.

Because even if she was barely eighteen by the time he was born and Neal was basically on the lam and neither of them had any realistic hopes of finding a full-time job and, in many ways, it was a dark and difficult time, and things only got worse when Neal was arrested (though they did get a bit better after that, but god, she still kinda feels angry at August for the way he set him up), she remembers how she used to hold baby Henry in her arms and how he was the only thing that made sense in the middle of all the chaos. He was like the tiniest beacon of clarity among all the murkiness.

He still is, she thinks, as she watches the way his eyelids flutter, and she wonders what he's dreaming about. What he's dreaming of.

And she also thinks that maybe it doesn't even matter how any of that happened. What matters is where she's now. It's all more or less up to her from now on.

Maybe it's time to make some good choices for a change. Time to be less of an idiot.

 

***

  

The first thing David does when they get to the station on Wednesday morning is make a fresh pot of coffee.

"You just had copious amounts of coffee with breakfast," Emma points out.

"I know. But I need more," David says. When he's finally holding a mug of coffee that somehow manages to smell burnt even if it's fresh, he asks, "How did it go yesterday?"

"What?"

"Your investigation."

"Oh, it was... I don't know. The Mayor kindly reminded me of the fact that I am not actually qualified for this job." Emma shrugs.

David smiles as if this is something he has known to expect. "She did? Well, in that case I will have to remind her of the small loophole in Maine legislature concerning special and civil deputies."

Her father and his loopholes again. Yet another thing he's good at finding. Emma sighs. "Okay, how about nobody reminds anyone of anything until somebody asks someone something that requires that. Because I think I have that part covered for now."

"Sure," David says. "I'm just saying."

"Did you find the dog last night?" Emma asks because the events of the night before are really not something she wants to talk about with her father.

"Yeah. He was trapped in the crawlspace under an abandoned house."

"Nice. So what exciting sheriffing kinda things do you have planned for today?"

"Well, apparently somebody keeps painting graffiti on the fence behind the hospital and that's disturbing Dr. Whale's zen, so I'm going to check that out."

"Okay."

"Want to come with? You can take pictures?"

"Sure."

"Oh, by the way, there's one thing I can't do in good conscience, though. I can't allow you to carry a concealed weapon." David looks slightly concerned.

"Well," Emma says. "How often have you had to use yours so far?"

"Once or twice," David says darkly, probably remembering those one or two times.

"Well then. Let's hope I won't need one," Emma says.

"I'm not letting you anywhere near armed robberies, you know?"

"I know. Besides, this is Storybrooke."

"Yeah," David says.

To be honest, Emma isn't overly fond of guns anyway. They remind her of another time and a whole different set of fears. She doesn't know if everybody keeps imagining the deaths of their loved ones in their heads, perhaps as a way of preparing for the inevitable, but whenever she thought of all the possible ways Neal could die, she kept picturing him lying on the ground, fresh gunshot wounds all over his body. It wouldn't have been that unlikely even, considering the company he kept for a while and all the possible moments of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That never happened, though. What happened was much more mundane, much more boring, and, in many ways, for that very reason, so much more shocking.

Because no matter how many ways you imagine it happening, nobody can prepare you for the reality and finality of death. Nobody can prepare you for the way it feels when you go to the ER with someone with a splitting headache and leave alone, only to go back later with your son whose method of coping with the sudden horror consists of doing endless hours of research on aneurysms and hemorrhagic strokes and coma patients and their brain reacting to stimuli such as the sound of someone reading. He was so sure that if he just believed in it, there could be a happy ending to that story...

"Emma?" David says expectantly.

"Sorry. What?"

"I was just saying that if this is something you'd like to do longterm, I mean, if you'd maybe want to become the new Sheriff when I retire, you should consider applying to Maine Criminal Justice Academy. Then there would be no need for loopholes."

"Oh. Right. Sure," Emma says. As if she'd ever want to be Sheriff Swan. Wasn't that what the dude in Twilight was called?

But she's not really thinking about David's words right now. Her thoughts are mostly a million miles away, somewhere where unicorns and dragons are real and people can find some semblance of a happy ending.

Because if that, if _happiness_ is something that actually happens in a world without magic or unicorns and dragons, it's something that Henry deserves after everything he's been through. She's not so sure if the same can be said of her.

But this is no time for those thoughts. "Let's go see what the artistic section of the Storybrooke criminal element has accomplished," she says.

 

***

  

The night sky is darker than it's been lately. It looks like it's going to rain soon. Maybe Maine weather is finally returning to normal after the warmer period.

Emma is thankful for the windbreaker she borrowed from her mother's closet. It's ugly as hell, but she's running out of practical clothes. Almost all her stuff is in Boston and she's here, and... She wonders if she should have her and Henry's things sent to Storybrooke. A small voice in her head is saying _no_ , because it would be too much like... actually moving here. But then again, who is she kidding? She reminds herself to make that call the following day.

The old play castle is practically in ruins, which sort of explains Regina's desire to demolish it. A storm has hit it hard, most likely. Strings of seaweed cover its barely standing remains. Its pathetic state makes her think of the ephemeral quality of everything, even things that, like the castle, carry memories of happier days, easier times.

It's not a good thought.

It's almost nine thirty and she's almost certain Regina is not going to show up, but then she hears the sound of a car door being slammed shut and she turns to look at the direction of the sound.

Regina's standing by her car, dressed in a black trench coat, and she's tucking her hair behind her ears as the wind threatens to take control of it.

But even slightly disheveled like that, she only manages to look like she's in a rather windy photo shoot. She always looks like she's in a photo shoot, Emma realizes. There's something almost otherwordly about her well-composed facade – people in real life simply don't look like that. That... heartbreakingly beautiful.

"Are you real?" The words escape her lips as soon as Regina is in hearing distance, and they are stupid words, but she has already made her peace with the fact that she's never in full control of her thoughts or actions when she's around Regina. It's quite possibly the most frustrating part of everything, but it's all part of the curse.

"Are you drunk?" Regina asks instead of answering, which is... Well, it's probably the sensible thing to do.

"No. Just wondering," Emma says.

"What would I be if not real?" Regina asks.

"I don't know. It's just that... I don't get you. You are like two different people in one. It's almost unreal."

"Have you been psychoanalyzing me?"

"No?" It's not quite the truth, but Emma's not sure if what she's been doing, if her _obsession_ could be called psychoanalyzing.

"Good. Because that's another thing you're unqualified for," Regina says.

"I know some things about you," Emma says. The things she knows don't really form a coherent picture, but... Yeah.

"You know nothing," Regina says very firmly.

"How can you be so sure?" Emma asks.

"Because there's nothing to know," Regina says.

There's a sense of finality to her words, and Emma is ready to protest that, because there's no way what Regina is saying is true, but she finds herself gazing into the dark, dark darkness of her eyes once again and as she stares into the darkness, the almost abyss-like darkness, she's not sure what she's seeing, other than millions of different hues of brown and reflections that look vaguely familiar. The only thing she knows for certain is that she's falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And she doesn't know what it is she's falling into, but it's like a persistent madness that seems to be pulling her in.

How the fuck is she supposed to survive this conversation anyway? If there's even going to be a conversation, because by now Regina's standing dangerously close to her and there's only darkness and the sound of the waves surrounding them, and she's thinking...

What was it again she was thinking?


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**  

 

"Okay," Emma says, because she just needs to say something, seeing that it's the only way she can stop herself from doing something drastic. She forces herself to look at the ocean instead of Regina. The waves splash against rocks with a force that signals an upcoming storm. "I think it's time for some truths."

"What do you mean?" Regina asks, but she sounds like she knows exactly what Emma means.

"I'm tired of having been dragged into something totally weird and knowing only fragments of whatever is going on."

"Subjective reality, by definition, is fragmented," Regina says.

Despite her sudden fatigue, Emma has to smile at that. "Really? Now you go all philosophical on me?"

"No. I..." This is the first time Emma has heard Regina sound even a little hesitant.

Something about the puzzle clicks into place right then and there. "You are scared, aren't you?" Emma asks.

"Why would I be scared?" Regina's question almost drowns in the sound of the waves.

"I don't know. Maybe because I don't think you know much more than I do about what's going on and you hate that you have to rely on someone you know even less about."

"That's your interpretation."

"Am I wrong, though?"

Regina, too, focuses her attention on the waves, gazes into the horizon where dark clouds are gathering. "You wanted truths? Well, how about you tell me something first?"

Of course. Of course nothing can ever be as simple as having a normal conversation. "What do you want to know?" Emma asks a little warily.

"Why did you really approach me that night in Boston?" Regina asks.

Emma sighs. "I'm pretty sure we had this conversation already."

"And I'm _quite_ sure you weren't telling the truth. The whole truth."

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"There's always a reason."

Well, there's always the obvious, "Have you _seen_ you?" Somehow she manages to make the words sound almost flippant.

Regina huffs and shakes her head, clearly not happy with the answer.

"What?" Emma asks, because this time? This time she's going to get some actual answers.

"I don't understand the way people like you justify their actions."

People like... _What the hell?_ "Okay, this time you are not getting away with that 'people like you' nonsense," Emma says and her hands clench into involuntary fists inside the pockets of her mother's ugly windbreaker. "You were there, too." It seems like such an obvious but important thing to point out.

"Our circumstances were different," Regina says.

"Oh?"

There's something unmistakably sad about the way Regina falls silent and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear (it's in vain, because the wind catches it again a second later). "It was only two weeks after, wasn't it?" she says eventually.

Emma considers playing ignorant, but she knows what Regina means and she knows Regina knows that she knows, because Regina talked to Gold and Gold... Gold sure as hell knows when his son's funeral was. "Yes," she says.

"But that wasn't the first time you were in that place," Regina says.

"No," Emma says. There's no point denying it because she told Regina that herself.

"So, I don't know how many conclusions there are that one can come to," Regina says.

"I can think of several," Emma says.

"Yes, but all of them involve an eleven-year-old boy living in a potentially toxic environment," Regina says.

"Oh, right, and you know that for sure, because you must know so much about parenting," Emma says angrily, because this is not something she really wants to discuss with someone who's still practically a stranger. Someone she was never supposed to see again after that first night in Boston. And the insinuation that she would intentionally do something to hurt Henry... It's insulting on so many levels.

"Perhaps not, but I know how much a... situation like that can hurt a child," Regina says and her words are hollow, emotionless. Too much so, considering her previous snideness.

And then, suddenly, for once, something about this whole thing makes sense when Emma remembers the chat she had with her father. Cora Mills and Gold had an affair and what was Regina at the time other than a child trapped in a potentially toxic environment? _God._ How did she not realize that before? Emma's torn between just walking away, or maybe running, and attempting to explain, regardless of the weight of that decision. It's not often in her life that the latter desire has won out, but it does this time. "It wasn't like that. I wasn't cheating on Neal." Saying the words aloud feels sort of surreal.

The snideness is back, when Regina says, "Oh, really. So picking up strangers in hotel bars doesn't count as cheating?"

And Emma kind of wants to punch either Regina or herself, because, despite all the anger she's feeling, why the hell does she have this insane need to explain all these private matters to someone? "It doesn't, because he knew," she says through gritted teeth.

Regina looks at her in disbelief. "He knew?"

Emma closes her eyes, manages to count halfway to ten, but then there's nothing she can do when the words just... come. "He knew. Just like I knew about him and this coworker of his, Tamara, and all the others. Because you know what – Neal and I? That wasn't about the two of us. Not in a long time anyway. It was about Henry and giving him his best chance, because things are a hell of a lot easier when a kid has two parents who actually live together." All the moving around; all the temporary jobs all over the country; all the periods of only one of them having a job and Henry needing a new pair of shoes; all the half-decent apartments (and the occasional nights of sleeping in the car); all the running from the cops; all the long, lonely days when Neal was doing his community service; all the sleepless nights; all the restlessness – all of it could have been so much worse had it been only her and Henry at all times. And then there are more words, angrier than before, "It wasn't perfect but it was the best we could do, everything considered. It was always all about Henry and making sure he could have the best life we could offer him. Always. So please, by all means, feel free to judge me and my _actions_ , just understand that you have no idea who I am and what I've been through."

"I... I didn't know."

Emma hears the words, hears their slight taken-aback-ness, but she can't turn and look, doesn't want to see the face that's no doubt an inscrutable mask again, and then there are even more words she can't hold back, "Oh right, you didn't know, because you were too eager to push me away before you could've found out." Emma throws up her hands, both irritated and exhausted and she knows she's being unreasonable because it's not like she ever _wanted_ to get close to someone, it's not like she ever felt like she needed someone to just _understand_. "Just... Forget it. I don't even care. Because guess what? I was actually ready to leave – ready to leave all this... all this _fucked up_ _weirdness_ behind us. It's not like I ever wanted to come back in the first place, and then it was just... too much."

"You were leaving?"

"Yes. I was going to take Henry back to Boston. But luckily, or maybe unluckily for you, Henry begged me to stay and help you. So that's what I'm doing and it doesn't even matter if both of us hate this, because I'm not failing him any more than I've already done." But she hears the tiredness in her own voice, and she feels her anger slowly deflate.

Emma chances one glance at Regina, and Regina's expression _is_ inscrutable. "You should've left," Regina says quietly.

"I know," Emma says, because _goddamnit,_ she knows it. But she also knows that right about now would be the time to walk away if she were to ever do so, and it doesn't look like her feet are willing to move even an inch.

It's starting to drizzle, cold misty humidity falling from the dark clouds, so softly that it doesn't even feel like rain.

"So," Emma says when it looks like Regina is not going to say anything and why does it have to rain and _fuck_ , it's cold, and she's feeling drained after all the _words_ , all the things she hasn't said aloud to a single soul, things that only Henry knows, and even he doesn't know everything because, _jesus_ , he's just a kid, he's not supposed to know even half of the things he does know. The strangest thing is that getting all these things out makes her feel... lighter. What was it August said about the curse, about the weariness and emptiness? " _Sometimes it_ _almost_ _hurts to breathe."_ Right now, though? Emma feels cool, salty oxygen fill her lungs and it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did before. She forces herself not to think about that too much, because right now there are some other things she needs to figure out. "Let's get a few things straight. Gold. What is he to you? A friend or a foe?"

Regina's smile is mirthless. "I don't know if he's anyone's friend per se."

Isn't that the truth... "Then why the hell did you go to him for information?"

"He knows things. More than anyone else in Storybrooke," Regina says. She looks more uncertain when she adds, "And my previous... provider of information was no longer in the picture."

"And who was that?"

Regina glances at her like she's weighing the pros and cons of answering the question honestly before she says, "You saw him. In Boston."

"The bearded guy? Leather jacket? Manly tears?"

"Yes. Graham."

"He was what... your spy?" Emma wants to laugh, but she's not really quite in a laughing mood. It's just that... _real life, not a Bond movie_.

"He's a PI, yes," Regina says curtly.

Oh right. A PI. Of course. Of course every small town mayor has a PI at their disposal. "I guess he was a little more to you than just that," Emma says. She knows that she's not supposed to wonder, let alone actually _ask_. Whatever did or didn't happen between Regina and Graham shouldn't be any of her concern. And it isn't. Somehow, though, the idea that Regina would actually be into manly men of infinite manliness... Yeah, it's not just a somewhat ridiculous notion, it's also a little disturbing for a myriad of reasons.

Regina's smile is tight-lipped. "He wanted to be. I told him to leave me alone."

So maybe not manly men then. The strange sense of relief Emma is feeling is another thing she doesn't particularly care to dwell on. "Explains the tears," she says. And why, oh why is she making jokes?

"You can have his number if you want to console him, " Regina says wryly.

"Right. I think I'll pass," Emma says. "So you had him do what? Find dirt on your enemies?"

"Something like that," Regina says dismissively.

Suddenly a thought hits Emma and it makes her feel almost light-headed because it's both ridiculous and... maybe totally something Regina would do. "People like my mother?" she asks.

Regina doesn't speak, but Emma has no choice but to take her disgusted sneer as an affirmative.

It's so fucking weird that she almost lets out a hysterical laugh at the thought of someone trying to uncover her mother's dirty secrets. And then what? Some sort of a wicked revenge? Do those kinds of things even happen in real life? Is it wrong that she actually wants to ask if Regina discovered anything incriminating? And yet, she's not sure if she really wants to know. There's one thing she just can't let go, though. "Listen. Believe me, I am perfectly aware of the fact that my mother has certain... flaws, because, I mean, who doesn't? But I guess I just have a hard time picturing her doing something... downright evil."

"Evil is a matter of perspective," Regina says coolly. "I'm sure she doesn't see what happened in the same light as I do."

"What did she do?" Emma's voice is nothing more than a hoarse whisper, and she's not sure why, but she needs to know. Needs to understand.

Regina doesn't speak at first, but when she does, she sounds distant, impersonal. "She found out something she shouldn't have and she shared that knowledge with... the wrong person."

"What happened?" Emma asks. She knows she's pushing it, 'it' being whatever unlikely thing it is that's developing between them, something resembling a tentative trust, pushing it until it very well might just break.

"My life, as far as it ever truly was mine, was over." It's the same impersonal tone. It's resigned and really not the way anyone should be talking about lives being destroyed. Especially not when it's about their own life.

Emma hates herself for wanting to push and push, but she feels like she's getting _so close_ to something, some integral part of the mystery that's Regina Mills, and since it seems likely that it was not the _telling_ that was the key but what happened _after_ , something that someone who was not Emma's mother did, she asks, "Who did she talk to?"

In the darkness she suddenly sees Regina very clearly. She knows that look, the feeling of barely being able to sustain composure, the hauntedness, the world threatening to collapse under the weight of an unknown threat, and how it's always, _always_ safer to run, and that's why she knows what's going to happen before it actually happens.

Because suddenly Regina's looking down and exhaling and inhaling softly and then she says, "No."

It's not an angry _no_ or an authoritative one. It's uncertain, almost fearful.

It means, _"Whatever this is, it's too much."_

And it is. It's too much.

Emma closes her eyes, and hears the sound of Regina's boots on the coarse sand as she walks away.

When she opens her eyes again there's nothing but the rain that's getting heavier and wetter by the minute.

The rain and the sound of a car door being slammed shut.

"Fuck," Emma mutters to herself.

She stays where she is for a while longer, staring at the ocean, at the foamy waves, at the torn play castle.

She tries to find the anger inside herself, but she can't. What she feels is just loneliness with a hint of something hopeful mixed with a whole range of confusing and contradictory emotions.

For some reason, of all the things she's feeling, the smidgen of hope is the most agonizing. Quite possibly simply because its implications are chilling and earth-shattering.

It doesn't really hurt to breathe and that's fucking terrifying.

 

***

 

The house is dark when Emma gets back from her meeting with Regina. She's getting way too used to this sneaking around in the dark thing again.

As soon as she enters the kitchen, though, it's all a flashback scene from twelve years ago, albeit in a different setting. It's floral curtains and animal paintings instead of industrial elements and earth tones.

The small light above the counter is on and she sees her parents sitting by the table, looking all serious and expectant.

"What's up?" she says. When her parents just share a look, Mary Margaret looking anxious and David mostly confused and a little embarrassed, Emma starts to panic a little. Before she left, she made sure that Henry was brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed, but maybe something happened. She's quite sure she had her cell phone with her, though, and surely they would have called if... "Is everything okay? Is Henry okay?"

"Henry is fine," David says. "It's nothing."

"No, it's not nothing," Mary Margaret says. Her grip of her mug is too tight, almost white-knuckled. "Emma. You were out late."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "Did I miss my curfew?"

"You have been out late a lot," Mary Margaret says.

"Mary Margaret," David says, touching Mary Margaret's arm.

"What? It's true," Mary Margaret says.

"Yeah, there was something I had to do," Emma says as she pours herself a glass of orange juice.

"Something or... someone?" Mary Margaret says.

She may say something else, too, but Emma can't hear that from the coughing fit she's suddenly experiencing. And orange juice in the nasal cavity? Yeah, not a particularly nice sensation.

"See? You almost made our daughter choke to death," David says. "I told you to leave it alone," he mutters into his tea mug.

"Thanks for the... support, dad," Emma manages to say.

"Are you alright?" Mary Margaret asks. When Emma nods vigorously, she says, "I just thought I'd bring it up. It is something we are all thinking about anyway."

"Who's 'we'?" Emma asks.

"Your father and I."

"Hey, I didn't... Emma, I swear I didn't explicitly state I agree with your mother," David says.

Emma shakes her head. "I don't even know what you guys are talking about."

"When are you meeting your friend August again?" Mary Margaret asks abruptly.

August. Right. She should probably ask him about the whole going to church thing. But that's not... Why would her mother ask her about meeting him? "August? What does he have to..." Then it hits her. "Oh my god, mom, do you seriously think I'm... Do you think August and I..."

"Well, who else could it be?" Mary Margaret shrugs, her eyes all too wide and doe-like.

" _Oh my god_ , mom. You are so off the mark," Emma says and then she realizes that it's maybe not the best possible answer so she adds, "There's no one."

"Of course not," Mary Margaret says, but she looks awfully knowing and it's the most irritating look ever. "You forget that I used to do archery. I usually always hit the mark."

"No, I'm serious. I just... I need some time occasionally. To think," Emma says. It's not even completely untrue, because _thinking_ is probably something she should be doing a lot more these days.

"If you say so," Mary Margaret says, and she almost sounds hurt.

"I do say so," Emma says firmly.

"Not that it would be wrong," David says after glancing nervously at Mary Margaret.

"It might not be wrong, but don't you think it just may be a bit too soon after, you know, everything?" Mary Margaret asks him.

"I don't know. I don't think there's a universal rule..." David says, but his voice trails off when Mary Margaret shoots a dark look at him.

"Hello, I'm right here," Emma says. God, things were so much better when her parents were being all... careful and uncertain around her. "Can we not talk about what your overactive imaginations have managed to conjure up," Emma says, almost feeling a migraine coming at the thought.

But hey, maybe that's the nature of _coming back_. There's the initial awkwardness of everything being both the same and so different, then the subsequent warm fuzziness of getting reacquainted, and then, as the logical successor, the inevitable complacency of everything and the rediscovery of the fact that life, as it usually is, is bound to get equal levels of messy and complicated and frustrating everywhere.

"Sure. We can talk about your birthday instead," Mary Margaret says.

And maybe she's not downright evil, but Emma has always been aware of the fact that her mother has an uncanny ability to really get on her nerves if she wishes to do so. "Do we have to?" she asks.

"Yes," Mary Margaret says. "Do you have any plans?" It's not even a real question. It's bordering on being a threat _._

"No," Emma says truthfully. She knows it's no use fighting her mother when she's being like that.

For the past five years or so, Henry has insisted on buying Emma a cupcake with a candle on top for her birthday. Other than that, well, her birthdays have been days like any other day - maybe just slightly more unpleasant reminders of how far she has veered from the path she envisioned for herself when she was a child and seriously thought that becoming a princess or a knight or maybe both were viable career choices.

"Don't make any plans," Mary Margaret says.

"Sure, whatever," Emma says.

"Don't 'whatever' me. It was cute when you were fifteen. It's not cute anymore. And we _are_ going to celebrate your birthday." There's something almost manic about the determined gleam in Mary Margaret's eyes.

"Fine," Emma says. "Good night." She turns on her heel and stalks towards the guestroom. She can hear two sets of murmuring voices from the kitchen, one more heated than the other, but she doesn't stop to listen in.

Parents. _God_.

If she's really going to stay in Storybrooke for a longer period of time (and it's not like it's even an _if_ kind of a situation anymore), she fucking needs a place of her own. An apartment for her and Henry. Otherwise it's quite possible that, sooner or later, after the rest of the nostalgia caused by retroactive homesickness wears out, she will find herself on the verge of borderline matricidal thoughts again.

Outside the house, there's the distant rumble of thunder, and raindrops hit the roof in an endless staccato.

 

***

 

On Thursday morning, things between Emma and her father are a little strained at the station. They re-organize the filing cabinet (and Emma is actually more than a little shocked by the little snippets from case files she glimpses at because apparently there are many things going on behind closed doors even in a place like Storybrooke that she never had any idea of and that David certainly never talked about at home – it makes her feel bleak to think of all the unseen tragedies unfolding behind all the carefully constructed exteriors and illusions of happy families), and David explains the routines of his work. Patrolling. Emergency calls. Paperwork. Communication with the fire department, hospital staff and private security companies. Reporting to the Mayor biweekly ( _"More or less,"_ said with a chuckle). Budget issues. Emma nods absently at regular intervals.

Finally around noon when nothing's really happening, David takes a break from staring at the phone like he's praying for it to ring and says, "I'm sorry about last night. You know how your mother can get sometimes."

"Oh yeah, I do know," Emma says. "What I don't know is how you two have managed to avoid killing each other for thirty years."

David laughs heartily. "It was the hardest in the beginning."

That's news to Emma and definitely not part of the official version of the story her parents are so keen on telling over and over again. "Really? I thought it was love at first sight for you guys. That you just _found_ each other and that was it."

"It _was_ love at first sight. But that didn't mean we didn't get on each others' nerves all the time."

"Sounds like something that would require a lot of effort to maintain," Emma says.

"Relationships are not motorcycles. You don't _maintain_ them, you cherish them," David says. He smiles. "For the most part, it has actually been relatively easy. It just always felt... right."

"Right," Emma says. There's a faint ringing in her ears, and everything seems distant somehow. She hears herself, but it sounds like it's someone else asking, "Like you could breathe?"

"Yeah. Something like that," David says.

Emma stares at the case file she's been reading, but the words suddenly lack meaning. Words, letters, numbers – they are familiar but they fail to form a recognizable pattern.

Her brain is hazy and her heart is beating too fast. Might be the first symptoms of a cold.

Or something like that.

 

***

 

In the afternoon, they drive around town in a seemingly aimless way, but David insists that there's some sort of a logic to his chosen route.

"The point is to establish a strong police presence in these mean streets," David says.

"Mean streets? Yeah, I think I just saw someone _almost_ run a yellow light," Emma says.

When they reach Park Lane in the somewhat shadier part of the town ('shadier' basically meaning that it was somewhere around here where August used to buy his weed back in the old days), close to the docks, Emma suddenly sees something that makes her say, "Stop."

"What?"

"Stop the car," she says again.

"Alright, Deputy," David says and parks the car on the side of the street.

"Is that it? The strip joint where Gold's girlfriend works?" Emma asks pointing at the pretty battered-looking building with an ancient, pink neon sign flashing "G RLS GIRLS GI LS" with a couple of the letters missing.

David clears his throat and says, "Yes. Why?"

"No reason," Emma says. "Just curious."

Ha. She knows what she's doing on Friday night. She's met Belle, but meeting Belle made matters only a little more complicated. Now it's time to meet Lacey and see if things are finally starting to look more comprehensible.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. _Two months._ And I'm sorry. Real life just got, well, incredibly real all of a sudden, you know? But hey, it says chapter 10/12 now! That's right, we are getting there, guys.

**Interlude IV**

 

_Just like lungs sucking on air_

_Survival's natural as sorrow, sorrow, sorrow_

_Under neon loneliness motorcycle emptiness_

(Manic Street Preachers – _Motorcycle Emptiness_ )

 

 

**X**

  

When Emma wakes up way too early on Friday morning, her heart is still racing from an exceptionally bizarre nightmare. The details of the dream are quickly slipping away from her grasp, but she remembers Gold's face being twisted into the monstrous face of someone who could easily pass for a member of Kiss or Twisted Sister, all pale, greenish skin and glowing eyes, and there was a scream and a gunshot, and Neal was falling, falling, falling into a whirlpool of green liquidy light, his chest covered in blood...

What she remembers of the imagery seems pretty ridiculous now that she's more or less awake, but it all felt so real that it takes a minute or two for her pulse to slow down.

Ugh. So, apparently nightmares are the next step in the process of her losing it. For the first time since everything turned upside down, the idea of revisiting therapy occurs to her. The thought, however, passes just as quickly as she remembers the few sessions with Dr. Hopper that her parents forced her to have after they'd found out she'd been skipping school and all attempts at them having a talk with her had ended in her retreating into her upstairs bedroom and blasting Alice in Chains at a volume that probably made the neighbors' ears bleed.

 _"Are you sleeping alright?"_ Dr. Hopper would ask, and when she would grunt in reply, he would ask her what she dreamed about. 

 _"Unicorns,"_ she would answer every time, tapping her foot angrily, arms crossed, hair hanging in messy blue curls in front of her face, and he would sigh and look compassionate, but mildly frustrated despite his annoying patience.

It didn't quite work out. Probably still wouldn't. She supposes she isn't genetically predisposed to be reflective. Reflectiveness doesn't, after all, sit so well with idiocy as the two tend to cancel each other out.

So there's really only one way of trying to get rid of the really rather disturbing image of a green-skinned, lizard-like Gold and Neal's bloody torso, and that's work. Hours and hours of tedious, boring deputy work until everything else fades into the background. It's her father's day off so it's her chance to have the station all to herself.

 

***

 

It's just a hunch, but the idea's been forming in the back of her mind for days even though it's only now that she really pays conscious attention to it.

Something Gold said about Belle. How Emma helping Gold would also help Belle.

It would not be the first time in the history of the world a rich businessman took advantage of an impressionable and innocent student, because rich businessmen have, in abundance even, something that students generally lack – money.

But just what kind of services, besides the obvious, would someone like Gold expect from Belle for monetary compensation?

At least someone in this town seems to be living in the 2010s as it's easy to find a Facebook profile for a Belle French, residing in Storybrooke, Maine. There are no posts visible on her Timeline, but most information about her is public. It's almost as if she's someone who doesn't have any dark secrets, which in itself is suspicious. Everyone has something to hide.

In her profile picture she is smiling next to someone who has been cropped from the photo. Could be Gold, could be someone else. Her likes contain no surprises. Disney films. Various books and authors. Antiques. Hillary Clinton. Australian TV series that Emma has never heard of. Red wine.

And hey, apparently she speaks Mandarin, but that, while rather cool, is not in any way scandalous. Nothing else about her education (a degree in Information and Media from a university in Sydney) seems in any way unusual for a librarian either until... 

Shit.

_Studied Public and Nonprofit Management and Policy at NYU Wagner._

Shit.

So Gold's girlfriend just happens to have a degree in something that could very well scream a possible career in, let's say, small town politics.

Let's say in a small town in Maine.

Her initial thought when Gold brought up the election had been that Gold was gunning for Regina's office, but maybe running a town _and_ half of its businesses would not fit his busy schedule. It would also inevitably lead into conflicts of interest in regard to things like zoning and obtaining all sorts of permits. Overtly so, too, which isn't really Gold's style.

And Gold is the exact kind of person who probably just loves using people as his puppets so he could very well use his power and connections to get Belle wherever he needs her to be in the Storybrooke power hierarchy.Wherever he needs someone whose strings he can pull whenever needed, with vapid promises of True Love™ and the occasional rose bouquet given in return for this loyalty.

 _Shit, shit, shit._ Emma wants to punch herself in the face for not thinking of this sooner. One should never ever underestimate librarians or strippers.

Because Belle French might be a librarian and a stripper and Gold's girlfriend and Henry's potential step-grandmother. But maybe she might also be the future mayor of Storybrooke, Maine, as outlandish as it sounds.

It's a lot and it's more or less a shot in the dark, but it's certainly something worth looking into. The only thing Emma is absolutely certain of is that Gold is using Belle for something. What it is, is something she needs to find out and that can only be accomplished by talking to Belle alone. Who knows, perhaps she's not even aware of what's in store for her in Gold's mind.

 

*******

 

It's afternoon, and other than taking a short lunch break, Emma's been at least pretending to work non-stop. Actual work, in addition to stalking Belle French on Facebook, has mostly consisted of answering phone calls about a few fallen trees and communicating with the fire department and the power company about removing them. Other than that, she's played several games of Solitaire and even organized her father's pens by color.

She's surprised when Henry stomps in at half past two. He looks angry, his jaw set firmly, which is somewhat uncharacteristic of him.

"What's up?" Emma asks him, but only receives a grunt as an answer.

"Everything okay at school?"

He says nothing, but he picks up a dart and throws it at the board.

"Shit," he says when he misses, because oh yeah, he is very much Emma's son.

"Henry," Emma says in what she hopes is a warning tone.

"What?"

"Language," she says.

"Sorry," he says but he doesn't sound sorry at all.

Emma sighs. "What is it, kid?"

"Nothing."

"Clearly it's something."

"Why would I tell you?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"You never tell me anything." His eyes burn holes into the wall by the window.

The thing is, they rarely fight. In fact, Emma can't even remember the previous time they did that. Yet, at the same time, she supposes things on that front have been going too smoothly lately. Maybe Henry is finally starting to act out which she realizes she's been afraid of this whole time, ever since Neal's death. It's not, nor should it be, easy for a kid to lose a parent.

Or maybe it's puberty, which, in a way, is an even scarier thought. Oh god, don't let it be that. Not yet. Not in... not in years. Images of Henry with blue hair flash in front of her eyes, but she forces herself to calm down. _Breathe. Communicate._ "What have I not told you?"

"Never mind," Henry says, picks up his backpack from the floor where he's discarded it and heads for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," he says and he says the word very easily, like someone who is used to temporary stays. Homes come and go. No big deal.

 _"Do you even know what that word means?"_ The question almost slips out, but she catches herself and asks, "Wait, is your grandma going to be walking with you?" 

He looks offended. "No. She had a meeting."

"Are you sure you won't get lost?"

" _Duh._ This is Storybrooke," he says.

That makes Emma smile. "Spoken like a true Storybrookian," she says.

"Whatever," Henry says. "See you."

When he disappears into the corridor, Emma can't help but feel uneasy. She's sure Henry will be okay, but something was definitely off. She resists the urge to run after him.

It is, after all, quite possible the kid just needs some time and space to sort out his feelings so, despite being worried, she decides to give him that. She knows from personal experience that coddling is often the exact wrong solution.

 

***

 

She decides an hour and a half are more than enough time and space.

"Emma?" her father asks. He sounds too sleepy for four p.m. 

"I'm just calling to check if everything's okay with Henry."

"Yeah, he just came home. Said he visited you at the station."

"He did, yeah. So he _just_ came home?"

"Yes, five minutes ago."

It doesn't take an hour and a half to walk less than a mile. "Okay. Well, I guess that's why I called. Wanted to make sure he made it okay."

Emma can basically hear her father frown. "Is everything... Is something wrong?"

"No, no. See you all in a couple of hours."

"Don't work too hard."

"Solid advice, boss."

She ends the call and frowns. Right. Time and space. No coddling. No stifling kindness. No forcing the kid into therapy at the first sign of trouble.

God. The whole _letting go_ aspect of being a parent really, really sucks.

 

***

 

Henry seems to be acting completely normal when Emma gets home from work. After dinner, when he's helping Emma clear the table, he mumbles a small, "Sorry," and Emma ruffles his hair and sighs in relief.

  

***

 

It's nine p.m. when she knocks on the door of August's room at Granny's.

Eventually she hears a muffled, "Come in."

August is sitting at his desk, his fingers on the keys of an old typewriter, and Emma is relieved that he's not smoking, because while the thought of arresting him for possession is alluring on some level, the same level that still harbors resentment towards him, it's still something she'd rather not have to do.

"Emma," he says, not even sounding particularly surprised. "Or should I call you Deputy Swan now?"

"Let me guess. Granny told you."

"Yes, Granny and about half a dozen others. The gossip mill in this town is really quite impressive in its effectiveness. But Emma, law enforcement? Really?" His tone is teasing.

"Yeah, well," she says, shrugging. "Speaking of uncharacteristic choices... How was church?"

"Well, church--," August says, "-- served as a necessary reminder that not everything about our pasts can be reconciled with our present day selves. But at least good old _papa_ was happy."

"Good," Emma says.

"Good?" August asks.

"Yeah, I'm glad you didn't suddenly turn into a devout Catholic because we are going to a strip club."

"Are you serious?"

"You know the place with the broken sign?"

August grimaces. "Really? That place? We're going there?"

They are.

 

***

 

The atmosphere in the joint is, in one word, hazy.

It's not quite the dingiest bar Emma's ever been in, but it's close. The place is almost deserted save for a few guys sitting by the bar that's lit by strings of Christmas lights.

_Real classy._

There's a small platform where a girl is currently in the process of taking off her bra in a very complicated way. A spotlight lands on her flat stomach and skinny hips. Her expression is disinterested, but then again, nobody is probably paying attention to her face. She's not exactly pretty, but not totally unattractive either. 

Right, what can you expect in a strip joint in Storybrooke? It's not Belle, no, _Lacey_ , though.

"So, why exactly are we here? Are you looking for another career change or what?" August asks.

"Yeah, absolutely. If only I were ten years younger." And for a second she wonders if that's what might have happened had she stayed in this town. Seventeen and pregnant. Eighteen and working as a stripper.

"Your parents might have a thing or two to say about that."

"Yeah. Which is exactly why an eighteen-year-old me would have jumped at the chance."

August laughs but then turns serious. "A friend of Ruby's works here. Ashley. She's eighteen and she has a baby. I didn't know that that kind of thing happens in Storybrooke."

"That kind of thing happens everywhere." Emma thinks of the files at the station. Domestic disturbance calls. Removing kids from homes. All kinds of things happen everywhere. Ugly things. They happen behind closed doors, but they do happen.

August sighs. "I suppose so. We can't run from the big bad world. So why are we really here?"

"Because I need to talk to Gold's girlfriend and you are here as my camouflage because you fit right in in this place."

August sighs again. "Of course."

  

***

 

August is sipping his second whiskey on the rocks by the time Lacey appears on the stage. 

Emma tries not to stare even though she's not sure why. Gold's girlfriend can certainly _perform,_ that much is clear. She is also very attractive. _And_ in a relationship with Henry's grandfather.

When it's over she walks over to where Belle is drying the sweat off with a towel, thankfully mostly clothed.

"Emma!" Belle exclaims. "I, well, I didn't expect to see you here."

Emma rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Yeah, this is not my usual hangout."

"Right," Belle says and laughs. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Err. It was... very impressive."

Belle laughs again. 

"Can we talk? In private?" Emma asks.

"Umm, sure. Why not," Belle says even though she looks somewhat confused. "Come with me."

Emma follows Belle towards the back of the building.

When they are outside, Belle leans against the wall, next to a trashcan, and lights a cigarette. She smiles. "Sorry. Disgusting old habit. I'm trying to quit."

"It's fine," Emma says.

"So, what did you want to talk about?"

"Gold," Emma says.

"Oh," Belle says.

"I... I know that you don't know me, but I'm concerned."

"Why?"

 _Oh boy_. "Why? Well, as you probably know, Gold and I go way back. I guess I just wanted to know more about your relationship with him."

Belle giggles, blows smoke towards the night sky. "What do you want to know?"

Emma decides that some level of honesty might be the best way to go. "I guess... I don't get it. He's so much older than you and you are very pretty."

"Why, thank you. But that wasn't really a question." Something about Belle is harder, a little suspicious.

"I guess I'm just curious as to how that happened." Emma attempts a smile that she hopes is friendly enough.

And maybe it is, because Belle smiles, too, and says, "I met him at a party and, well, I have to admit at first I was attracted to this aura of wealth and power that hung around him. But soon enough I realized he was actually a really sweet person." 

"Sweet?"

"Yes!" Belle laughs that bubbly laugh again. "He can be very sweet, believe it or not."

"Are you sure you know him well enough?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I may not know _everything_ about him, but I know he loves me."

"And you are okay with... his dark side and everything? The whole power thing?"

"Everyone has a dark side," Belle says. "Besides, it's sort of hot." Her voice turns into a whisper and her eyes sparkle. "You wouldn't believe the sex."

Aaaand, okay, "Thanks for that, but that's... too much information. Really."

"Well, since you asked..."

"What does he think about... this?" Emma gestures around them, desperately trying to erase the image of _Gold_ and _sex_.

"The fact that I'm still dancing?" 

"Yeah."

Belle shrugs. Her smile is the tiniest bit sad when she says, "He doesn't exactly like it, but he says it's my choice."

And maybe it's time to try poking the ice... "And you don't think that might interfere with your potential career in politics?"

Belle laughs. It's a hearty laugh. "What career in politics? I'm not interested in anything like that."

Right. Emma smiles. "Oh, sorry. I guess I just assumed an intelligent person like you might want to put those smarts into use for the common good."

Belle laughs and laughs. "Sorry, but no. Never even crossed my mind."

"Well, that's just too bad," Emma says and she really means it in so many ways.

 

***

 

As Emma approaches August again she notices he's talking to someone.

Someone dressed in a long leather coat. Someone vaguely familiar. Or not so vaguely, as she realizes when said someone suddenly looks over his shoulder and she sees the guyliner, the stubble and the oh-so-familiar smirk.

And... _crap_.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Killian Jones, believe it or not, says.

Emma recovers from the shock rather quickly. What did her father tell her about Killian's whereabouts? Right, a charity ship somewhere that's not Storybrooke. "Aren't you supposed to be on a ship?"

Killian grins drunkenly. "I'm on shore leave." He laughs. "Extended shore leave."

"How... extended?" Emma asks. She's close enough to smell the alcohol in his breath. Who knows how many weeks' worth of it.

Killian continues grinning even though his eyes aren't smiling. "Bastards fired me. Said I drank too much. Been living in Seattle for the past two years."

"But this isn't Seattle."

"No, I'm... I'm visiting. Hook's playing a reunion gig at Neverland this weekend."

"Hook?"

"My band. Like Captain Hook? From Peter Pan? My favorite childhood book?"

"Oh, I didn't remember it was called that." Suddenly the name _Neverland_ makes so much more sense.

"Really? You didn't remember what the one and only post-apocalyptic folk metal band in Storybrooke was called?" August asks.

"Sorry. I wasn't in the post-apo-- whatever metal scene."

Killian laughs and it's a deep whiskey-slurred laugh. "Oh, I remember how it was with you. You never cared for me, did you? You were too busy stealing Apollo bars."

And it might be true, but only partly so. "Hey, that was just one time."

"It always is, isn't it?" Killian winks at her.

Emma sighs. "You are not making any sense."

"Oh, you are a clever girl, so you know I could make sense to you. I could make sweet, sweet sense--"

It's enough and he's sort of pitiful, but she's getting a bit irritated with him. "Killian? You are drunk. Very, very drunk. And, frankly, a little creepy."

"I'm not... a creep. That's inst- insulting. How's... How's your father?"

"My father? He's fine."

"Good, good... Good to hear. I always liked, no, I always... I loved your father. He's a good man." He looks sincere enough, but yeah, very, very drunk.

"Err. Great. I'm sure he liked you, too."

"No, you don't get it. No, you don't. Couldn't get it. It's bad form for men to love one another. So love for us means punching and all that, but... Now, I was just sayin' that I'm a married man, too, these days." Killian's eyes have a hard time focusing on anything.

The whole discussion and the whole evening has been sort of bizarre, but this just might take the cake. "Really? Someone married you?"

Killian closes his eyes and smiles. "Yes. I got lucky. Milah's perfect." 

That seems like the perfect place in the discussion to point out the obvious, "And yet here you are. In a strip joint."

Killian blinks and asks, "What's your point?"

Emma smiles at him, because, really, he's just pathetic and it's just all kinds of sad. "I think you'll be able to figure it out when you sober up."

"I'm perfectly sb- sober," Killian says, attempting to lean against the bar, which only leads to him losing his balance.

Emma shoots a pointed look at August who looks back questioningly. She gestures at Killian who is currently attempting to gather himself up from the floor and August sighs, but he does get the hint. He walks over to where Killian's lying and Emma hears him say, "Okay, _matey_ , let's get you a cab." He pulls him into a more or less upright position and starts to drag him towards the door.

When August returns a few minutes later, he's shaking his head.

"What happened?" Emma asks.

"Well, I called him a cab, and then he tried to kiss me."

"I guess the dude would still do anyone with a pulse," Emma says, shaking her head, only slightly amused by the mental image.

"Well, I happen to be very attractive, but yes, it would seem so," August says.

"I just can't believe someone married him," Emma says, because it feels so wrong somehow.

"It is indeed scary what that says about the holy institution of marriage in general," August says.

"But what does that say about us, though? The fact that even someone like him has someone who's willing to marry him?" Emma asks.

"That we are not fooled by societal norms that consider married with children the ultimate form of an acceptable family unit and something everyone should desire?"

Emma sighs, shakes her head, allows her head to be filled with images, both real and imaginary. Marriage. She has never really understood all the hype. But to have that level of security with someone, the whole package, family, companionship... She thinks of her parents and then her mind starts to wander. Neal with the cheapest engagement ring ever. The big fight. Her admitting it just wasn't _it_ , that it just didn't feel _right._ Henry. Her parents. Henry with pockets full of apples...

She gets lost in all the images for a long while, which she doesn't realize until she glances at August and sees that he's staring at her. He doesn't say anything. He just stares. His eyes are the color of cool water.

"What?" Emma asks when she's starting to get weirded out by his unblinking stare.

"Oh my god, _Emma_ ," August says, his voice full of wonder.

"What?" Emma asks again and momentarily wonders if August is high again. He can't be, right?

"Who is it?" he asks.

 _Wh--_ "What are you talking about?"

"I know that look." 

"What look?"

" _That_ look. That wistful look," August says lowering his voice dramatically. "Remember when Neal got kicked out of college and he returned to Storybrooke in his tiny yellow car like some goddamn fallen knight and you, Emma, you took one look at him... And that was it. And you told me you weren't at all into him, because he was _old and gross_ ," he says that part in a high-pitched voice that's probably supposed to mimic teenage Emma's, but fails miserably,"But oh no, you had that look in your eyes then, too."

"So...?"

"So, _p_ _lease_ , Emma, just tell me you are not planning on running away with a criminal again," August says.

"I'm... not?" Emma says.

"Good."

"I'm not running away with anyone because there is no one."

"Of course not."

"No, I'm serious. If anything, my mother thinks I'm dating you."

August's stare is blank. "Me? Now, don't get me wrong, because you are a beautiful and amazing human being, but somehow that just seems so... wrong."

Emma laughs. "I know. And even if you weren't old and gross, it would almost be like incest."

"Your mother is a strange woman."

"I know," Emma says.

She feels an emptiness, a hollow space just under her ribcage, thrum in time with the blinking Christmas lights at the bar. The people around her, all disgusting grabby hands and all that desperation in their eyes, it all fills her with a certain kind of profound sadness. August is there, bright eyes and warm and familiar, and that sadness combined with frustration, somehow, makes her say it out loud, "Anyway, even if there was someone, I mean, hypothetically speaking, it would be complicated and there's... stuff."

August smiles. "There's always stuff."

"There's more stuff than usual."

"Stuff that could be overcome?"

"I don't know."

"Well, if you really like him, there's only one piece of advice I'm going to give you. In the immortal words of Robin Williams and other godly beings, _c_ _arpe diem_."

Emma smiles at his seriousness and theatricality. It's just so... August. She kind of wants to correct the pronoun, but then again, what does it matter? It has certainly never mattered to her. "That's... What do you expect me to say to that? _O Captain,_ _m_ _y Captain?_ I thought you hated Dead Poets Society."

"And I do. I hate it with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, and that's how much I mean this when I say you should seize the fucking day."

"I don't know, August. I don't know. Let's just go, okay? I think I've had enough of this place."

  

***

 

She drops August off at Granny's and then...

She's not sure if it's about seizing the fucking day.

No, scratch that, she knows it's not. Really. She knows she would have ended up here with or without August's friendly advice. It's just how it is. It's just gravity. That much she's willing to admit to herself.

The inevitability of it all doesn't mean she's brave enough to exit the car, though.

The house, mansion, whatever, is dark.

Maybe there's no one there. It's Friday, almost midnight. Regina could be anywhere. She might even be in Boston. The thought and the accompanying mental images are uncomfortable.

She sits there for about ten minutes, tries to breathe, considers going home. She can report back tomorrow after the stupid birthday party. It's not like anything's going to happen overnight. Gold is not going to take over the town while she's asleep. The world is not going to end or if it is, it's not because of anything she has or hasn't done.

She's still thinking about that when she's standing on the porch. Two sharp knocks. 

She could still go home.

Then it's too late because the door opens and Regina is standing there in a gray dress and looking at her and everything seems oddly inconsequential all of a sudden. "You," is all she says. 

"Yeah," Emma says, because what else can she say?

"You are here. Again," Regina says and somehow it's a small but significant improvement from, _"What are you doing here, Miss Swan?"_

"Yeah," Emma says.

"Is there any specific reason for that?"

"No, I... I went to a strip club." Of all the things she could say, that's what comes out.

"I see. Like father, like daughter," Regina says and looks mildly amused. 

Right. "You know about that?"

"I know everything that happens in this town. The Sheriff's indiscretions are no exception." 

"Yeah, well, did you also know that Gold's much younger, very attractive girlfriend is perfectly qualified to do your job?" 

"The librarian?"

"Never underestimate librarians. Or strippers." 

Regina's snort is something between irritated and amused. "I really don't think a stripper could win the election."

"She just might, considering the most influential man in town is backing her up and willing to do anything to win." _And your_ _biggest_ _benefactor is dead._

It doesn't take long for Regina to put the puzzle pieces together. "So he's using her?"

"It would appear so."

"The bastard."

"I know. That's what I've been telling you this whole time."

Regina doesn't say anything. She looks angry, yet oddly calm at the same time. 

"So... What do we do?" Emma asks. 

" _We_ don't do anything." 

"O- _kay_ then. What are _you_ going to do?" 

"I'm going to destroy the bitch." 

"Belle? I don't think..." 

"Not her. Gold. I'm going to destroy him." Regina's eyes are pitch black and determined. 

"Oh, wow, that's... That's quite a change of heart from refusing to believe me in the first place when I said he's borderline evil."

Regina purses her lips, shakes her head. "I suppose I _wanted_ to trust him. He's always been... close with my family." 

 _Yeah, like, sleeping with your mother close._ "I'm sorry." She's not sure why she feels the need to apologize. There's just something about family and trust and betrayal that makes her feel all kinds of achy. 

"Do you..." Regina says, then stops. She breathes, inhales, exhales, and then she says, "I suppose you don't want to come in?" 

"Err." Emma is slightly confused and a lot surprised but not entirely unpleasantly so. "Okay."

 

***

 

Regina is holding a glass of wine, not her first one, judging by the contents of the bottle, which might actually explain the invitation to come in. She's quiet, seemingly lost in thought.

Emma hears music from another room, something sad, crackling, French. Just the kind of music she could imagine someone who has a study like this might listen to.

She wonders if this is how Regina spends her Friday nights when she's not in some bar in Boston. Sits in the study with a glass of wine, listens to sad French music and what? Thinks sad thoughts? Balances the town budget? Solves sudoku? 

"It's not that I have ever liked him," Regina says. 

"Huh?"

"Gold. I don't like him. But he taught me a thing or two when I was younger."

"Oh?" 

"Those were mostly things I'd rather not have learned but they turned out to be useful." 

"Right. So he was kinda like a... parental figure?"

"A rather horrible one."

Emma can't help the laugh that erupts. It's not exactly funny, but it's... It's something.

"What's so funny?"

"It's just that... I used to live with his son and I don't think he ever taught _him_ anything." 

"Oh." 

Emma closes her eyes and leans back in the comfortable armchair. She's tired and it would be so easy to just fall asleep right there. Almost too easy.

"Speaking of children," Regina says suddenly. "How's Henry?"

It's an unexpected inquiry that makes Emma open her eyes and peer at Regina. "He's fine. Why?" 

Regina doesn't say anything, but there's a curious expression on her face.

Wait a minute. _Maybe she could be my friend._ And it doesn't take an hour and a half to walk less than a mile."He came to see you today, didn't he?" 

Regina is still not saying anything. She looks uncertain. 

Emma buries her face in her hands. She's too tired to get mad. "It's okay. I mean, it's not _okay_ that he does something like that without permission but it's better than, I don't know, stealing candy or smoking or... I don't know." 

"So you won't... punish him?" 

Emma almost smiles, because when has she ever come across as a _disciplinarian_ , but then she notices how serious Regina is and she frowns. "No? It's... Something was obviously bothering him today. But he seemed okay later." 

"Good." 

She hates that she has to ask someone else. She hates that her son didn't talk to _her_ , but she has to know. "Did he... Did he say what it was that was bothering him?" 

"He did." 

"You are not going to tell me, are you?" 

"No, Emma, I think you should talk to your son." 

 _Emma_. Huh. "About what?" 

"About his father."

"Right." It's so much easier said than done. She's tired and she closes her eyes again. She knows she probably shouldn't be here, but it's just so, so... 

 _So_ comfortable. 

She doesn't know how much time passes, but suddenly she feels a hand on her shoulder. When she opens her eyes again, blinking at the sudden brightness of the lights, she asks, "What time is it?"

Dark eyes shine with something akin to fondness or maybe it's just the wine, but the touch feels almost like a caress. "Time for you to go home."


End file.
